


Know Thy Enemy

by SuePokorny



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:09:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5815444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/pseuds/SuePokorny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the escape of Minister Colbert, the Musketeers are tasked with following up a lead concerning Louis' former Finance Minister who has successfully absconded with the King's gold. Aramis and Porthos are drawn into a deadly game with connections to Athos' past. Sequel to my story "What Remains to Be Seen" but it is not necessary to read that one in order to follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

_This is the promised sequel to my story “What Remains to Be Seen”, though reading that is not necessary to understand what goes on in this one. This is my longest story to date! Pretty proud of that – not gonna lie. ☺ Thanks, as usual, to my incredible beta, Sharlot, who always makes these stories so much better. ☺ Hope you enjoy!!_

**Know Thy Enemy**

Chapter 1

“Oi,” Porthos growled under his breath. “These sots couldn’t hit the broadside of the palace if they were standing right next to it.” He flinched as another badly aimed shot rang through the forest, one more tree giving its life for His Majesty’s folly. “I hate these royal hunts. If any of them could shoot a musket sober, it’s pretty much a given most of ‘em can barely see the target let alone hit it after drinkin’ a barrel of wine.”

Athos raised an eyebrow, his body stiff at attention. “At least the wildlife remain safe.” A stray shot pinged off a tree far to their right. “Of course, I am not so sure of ourselves.”

The King had decided to organize a hunt in the forest near the Louvre to entertain Odoardo Farnese, the Duke of Parma and his young son, Alessandro. Wanting to make a good impression in order to arrange a marriage between young Alessandro and a distant cousin, Louis had ordered the finest wine from the palace stores promising the Duke a royal feast and fete to consummate the union. So far, the wine was compensating for the lack of production in the hunt, but the Musketeers knew that having of a group of inebriated nobility with loaded firearms roaming the forest was not in anyone’s best interest. The sun was beginning to set behind the trees and they would have to find a way to call a halt to the hunt soon, whether the King’s guests found success or not.

D’Artagnan shifted, kicking up some dirt beneath his boots. “We’ve been out here all day,” he whined. “Can’t we just tell them they’ve used up all the ammunition and it’s time to head back? I’m starved.” A roar of laughter went up from the courtiers surrounding the King as he took another shot into the forest, nearly falling from the combination of wine and weaponry. The Gascon shook his head in confusion. “What is he shooting at? They’ve frightened all the game away by now.”

“Perhaps not,” Aramis tilted his head toward a small flock of quail landing about thirty paces in front of them. “I think a plump quail dinner could entice our questionable marksmen to call an end to the day’s festivities.”

Porthos huffed a laugh. “You forgettin’ none of them could hit the damn things if they waddled right up in front of ‘em and surrendered?”

“Dressed in all that fluff and finery, the courtiers do waddle a bit,” d’Artagnan noted, not quite able to keep a straight face.

“I am quite sure he was referring to the birds,” Athos sighed.

“Before any waddling takes place, perhaps we should offer our assistance.” Aramis grinned, his eyes flashing in the fading light. “Discretely, of course.”

Athos leaned forward, eyeing the Spaniard dubiously. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

“If you could persuade our illustrious King to take aim at the birds in flight, we should be able to… aid… his aim and bolster his success.”

D’Artagnan studied the birds in question, tilting his head as he watched them calmly strut around the small open area. “Just how are we to get them to take flight?”

Aramis placed an arm across his shoulder. “That’s where you come in. A smart farm boy like yourself should be quite practiced in ruffling the feathers of a few birds.”

It took a moment for the suggestion to register, but as soon as it did, d’Artagnan shook off the marksman’s arm and stared at him incredulously. “You want me to run down there, right into the line of fire?”

Aramis patted both hands against the lad’s chest. “Of course not. That is why Athos will be right by Louis’ side.” He dropped his voice as if sharing a secret. “I’m fairly certain he’s become quite fond of you and would never allow anything untoward to happen.”

D’Artagnan shot a skeptical look toward Athos, who merely nodded in return.

He sighed. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”

“That’s the spirit!” Aramis clapped him on the shoulder and turned to smile at Athos. “I believe the first move is yours.”

“May I remind you your sight was recently impaired.”

“I assure you I am fully recovered.” Aramis’ voice took on a tolerant tone and he rolled his eyes at Athos’ unnecessary reminder of his recent injury. An explosion in an alley had robbed him of his sight for a short time while on a mission to retrieve the King’s stolen gold. His weeks of blindness had served to frighten them all, but his sight was now restored to full sharpness and he was eager to prove to his friends that though their concern was greatly appreciated, it was no longer warranted.

“This had better work.”

Aramis’ smile returned. “Have I ever let you down?”

Athos’ brows disappeared under his ruffled bangs, but he turned and marched toward the King and his guests.

Aramis pulled his pistols from his belt and checked the load as Porthos stepped closer. “You sure this’ll work?” 

“Are you doubting my prowess as well, dear Porthos?”

“Never,” the big man shook his head and moved to stand between the courtiers and Aramis, effectively hiding him from their view. “I’m just desperate. I’m hungry and my feet are killing me.”

Aramis’ confident smile never wavered. “For you, my friend, I shall hit not one, but two fowl to grace His Majesty’s table this evening.”

Porthos snorted a laugh, but didn’t comment. It had been Porthos’ steady presence those weeks that had made it easier for him to compensate for his lost sight. Without the big man’s unwavering support, his natural impatience and doubts would have gotten the better of him, and the outcome could have been far different.

As soon as Athos indicated the King’s readiness, Aramis signaled d’Artagnan who ran at the flock of birds like a madman, arms pinwheeling as he let loose a loud squawk. The birds, startled at the sudden intrusion, took flight, rising through the treetops to the dusky sky above. 

“Fire!”

At Athos’ command, the King obeyed and a shot rang out, two of the birds stopping mid-flight and falling to the ground. The guests roared their approval as Louis, incredibly pleased with himself, turned to accept their accolades on his incredible display of marksmanship.

Porthos turned to see Aramis lowering his pistols, smoke still rising from the barrels. 

“Good shot,” the big man grinned.

“Yes,” Aramis agreed, placing his spent pistols back into his belt. “The King’s aim seems to have improved.”

It only took a few moments for Athos and d’Artagnan to return, each smiling, delighted with the outcome of their plan.

“The King has ordered his kill to be sent to the palace immediately so they can dine on their sumptuous feast.” Athos informed them. “As soon as we deliver His Majesty back to the Louvre, we are dismissed for the night.”

“Thank God,” d’Artagnan sighed. “You don’t suppose the King would see fit to share one of those birds?”

Porthos laughed. “Maybe Aramis should’ve tried to hit three at once.”

“Not even I am that good, my friend,” the marksman humbly insisted.

“You’re good enough,” Porthos complimented, and Aramis tilted his head in thanks. “I, for one, am willing to settle for whatever Serge has to offer.”

“I concur,” Athos agreed. “I suggest we return our charges back to the safety of the palace without further delay.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm

Despite the lateness of their return, Serge served them up bowls of warm, aromatic stew and loaves of crusted bread, which the Musketeers greedily devoured. With their hunger finally sated, the four friends relaxed against the large wooden table, sipping at their wine, allowing themselves to wind down from the exasperating day.

“Do you think Louis really believes he killed those two birds with one shot?”

Aramis nudged d’Artagnan’s shoulder in response to the younger man’s question. “Never underestimate the nobility’s capacity to believe exactly what they want without question.”

“Does that include all nobility as a whole?” Athos asked dryly.

Aramis bowed his head in contrition. “Point well taken, Comte. Though be assured I would never consider you part of such a generalization.”

Athos returned the nod, satisfied. “Apology accepted.”

The conversation was broken by heavy footsteps on the landing above.

“Aramis, my office, please,” Captain Treville barked from the balcony. “You too, Porthos.”

This time it was d’Artagnan who nudged at Aramis’ shoulder as soon as the Captain had retreated into his office. “You don’t think he heard about the King’s sudden amazing shooting skills, do you?”

Aramis shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “Perhaps he simply wants to commend me for my creative thinking.”

“Or caution you on the folly of it,” Athos amended. 

“Then why am I involved?” Porthos asked defensively. “It was Aramis’ idea.”

“Where he goes, you generally follow,” Athos offered. He raised his cup to drink, not quite hiding the smile lifting his lips. 

D’Artagnan leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Whatever the reason, from the look on the Captain’s face, I don’t think it wise to keep him waiting.”

Aramis sighed and pushed himself from the bench. He picked up his hat and placed it over his chest dramatically. “Remember us fondly, my friends.”

“Sonnets will be written,” Athos assured.

Aramis bowed, placed his hat upon his head, and with a disgruntled Porthos in tow, made his way up the steps to meet his fate.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The two Musketeers stood at attention before the captain’s desk, squirming under his intense scrutiny. Finally Treville leaned forward, forearms pressed against the parchment-strewn surface, his eyes locked on Aramis’.

“I understand the King made a spectacular shot today while hunting,” he said casually, his eyes narrowing as a ghost of a smile flashed across the marksman’s face. “It’s the talk of the palace,” he continued. “Quite a feat, I understand. Killing two quail with one shot. I just wish I could have been there to witness it for myself.”

Aramis blinked and tilted his head innocently. “It was quite impressive.”

“I’m sure.” Treville stared at them a bit longer before relaxing and sinking back into his chair. “I suppose as long as he remains unaware of your assistance, there will be no repercussions.” He shook his head, exasperated. “I have no idea what you could’ve been thinking, Aramis, but I am relieved your sight is no longer in question.”

“Thank you, Captain. I was merely trying to end a fruitless day before a stray shot actually managed to do harm.”

Treville chuckled. “Yes, Louis was quite in his cups when they returned. The Queen was not amused.” He shook his head ruefully. “I suppose it was for the best.”

Aramis smiled his thanks and Porthos heaved a sigh of relief.

Treville held out a folded parchment with the seal of the Cardinal already broken. “Considering you are fully fit for duty, I believe this may be of interest to you. The King has received word that Minister Colbert may have been sighted near the town of Brenne on the estate of the Baron d’Orbec. Though all our intelligence indicates the Minister has been traveling north, I am bound to give this report due diligence. The two of you will ride to the southern Berry province and ascertain if there is any credence to the report.” He leaned forward, his brows raised. “If there is any sign Colbert is hiding there, I do not want him aware of your presence. Send word and wait for reinforcements. Am I clear?”

Aramis accepted the parchment from the captain as Porthos nodded. “I hardly believe the Minister will be a challenge.”

“The King is losing patience. We cannot take he chance Colbert will find a way to slip away again.”

“Would it not be wise then to allow Athos and d’Artangan to accompany us as well?” Aramis suggested.

Treville sighed. “Since he had such success today, Louis has decided to hold another hunt tomorrow, requesting the four of you as escort.” He looked pointedly at the marksman. “I thought it best to remove any temptation you may have to offer assistance once again. The King will accept yours and Porthos absence, but I doubt he would take so readily to losing all four of his favorite Musketeers.”

Aramis pursed his lips and gave the captain an exaggerated nod. “I heartily concur, Captain. I can hardly be trusted with such enticement.”

“If Colbert is found to be hiding near Brenne, I will send the others.”

Porthos chuckled, nudging his friend with an elbow. “D’Artagnan is not goin’ to be happy about this.”

“D’Artagnan will learn that being a Musketeer is not all glory and praise.” Treville shrugged, unconcerned.

Aramis smiled. “If it pleases, we would be glad to extend the good news of tomorrow’s hunt to our dear friends.”

Treville rolled his eyes and waved them away, returning his attention to the myriad of scrolls ad parchments on his desk. “I wager you would. Be gentle.” 

As they made their way down the steps, both Musketeers schooled their faces, quickly donning expressions of contrition. As they approached their friends, d’Artagnan turned to them, trying to control his mirth as the two penitent men resumed their seats.

“I take it things did not go as well as you’d hoped?” 

Aramis shook his head as he reached for the cup he had abandoned only a few minutes ago. “The Captain had indeed heard of today’s activities.”

Porthos managed to grab his own cup and raise it to his lips before his smile gave the game away.

“He was not pleased?” Athos asked, a touch of concern in his voice.

“No.” Aramis took a drink and sighed dramatically. “And I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

“He’s punishing you?” d’Artagnan asked, his earlier humor tempered.

Aramis nodded, sighing again. “He is sending Porthos and me off chasing rumors to keep us away from the King’s scrutiny.” He shook his head, playing the part of the repentant man to the hilt. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to join you for tomorrow’s hunt, my friends. I’m truly sorry.”

“What? Why that’s – wait…” the younger man’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean tomorrow’s hunt?”

Aramis turned to d’Artagnan, steadfastly ignoring Porthos’ low rumble of mirth from across the table. “Apparently Louis was so happy with his success today, he has organized another hunt for tomorrow. Unfortunately, Porthos and I will not be able to help you stand guard seeing as we will be on our way to Brenne at dawn.” He waved the folded parchment in his hand and slapped it down onto the table. “I have the utmost confidence you will represent the Musketeers honorably in our absence.”

“What?” d’Artagnan sputtered, his eyes following the parchment before turning his gaze back to the marksman. “We have to spend another day in the forest dodging musket fire, and you and Porthos get to go out on a nice ride in the country? How is that fair?”

Unable to hold his laughter in any longer, Porthos nearly dropped his cup onto the tabletop as he roared aloud.

“And why does Porthos get to go?” the Gascon continued, unaffected by the big man’s mirth. “He didn’t even do anything!”

“Where he goes, I follow,” Porthos repeated Athos’ earlier words. “I suppose since I’m the only one who didn’t have a hand in Aramis’ scheme, it’s my job to go with ‘im and make sure he stays out of trouble.”

D’Artagnan folded his arms across his chest and huffed through his nose. “I still say it’s not fair.”

Athos had picked up the parchment, his eyes scanning the orders. “Treville is sending you after Colbert alone?”

Aramis shook his head. “We are only to ascertain the validity of the report and send word back. If we do find him, we have been ordered to wait for your assistance in apprehending him.” 

“Like it would take the four of us to catch that runt,” Porthos grunted, his good humor tempered.

“He has managed to evade capture for much longer than anticipated,” Athos reminded him. “Despite his stature, he is a cunning and devious man. I would feel better if we were all involved.”

“Treville believes this to be a false lead,” Porthos reassured his friend. “He is simply finding a way to lessen the temptation of Aramis tryin’ to show off again.”

“A legitimate concern.” Athos agreed. He handed the parchment back to Aramis and smiled. “Considering the circumstances, I believe the only honorable thing to do is retire to the Wren – at Aramis’ expense, of course.”

The marksman dipped his head conciliatorily. “Of course. My meager purse is at your disposal.”

“Don’t think a few bottles of wine will make up for this,” d’Artagnan grumbled, still sulking. He rose and joined his friends as they made their way across the courtyard. 

Aramis placed an arm across the younger man’s shoulders. “Ah, but it will be a good start.”

TBC


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter 2**

Dawn found Porthos and Aramis in the stables, checking their packs and saddling their mounts. Despite having said their goodbyes to their friends the evening before, it surprised neither man to find Athos waiting for them at their usual table when they led their horses out into the courtyard.

“Are you so eager for the King’s hunt you felt the need to rise with the sun?” Porthos asked with a smirk as he raised a foot and balanced it against the bench next to Athos.

Aramis dropped his gloves on the table and straddled the bench opposite, leaning sideways against the weathered table. “Isn’t it obvious, Porthos? He will miss us terribly.”

“Your absence will be noted,” Athos smiled, playing along. “But do not think the peace and quiet I will find will go uncherished.”

Aramis chuckled and placed a hand over his heart. “Your affection is touching.”

Athos dipped his head in acknowledgement.

“Brenne is near the lands of d’Orbec, is it not?”

Aramis nodded. “The Captain mentioned the Baron, why?”

“I am acquainted with him,” Athos explained. “He was a friend of my father’s.” 

Aramis turned and met Porthos eyes, surprised. Porthos leaned forward, one arm across his thigh, returning his attention to the swordsman. It was rare for Athos to mention his past, let alone speak of the people he had known when he was a comte. They had only heard him speak of his father once – when he was very drunk after the fiasco with Bonnaire – and they found themselves spellbound by the chance to learn more about their enigmatic friend.

“The Baron is a good man,” Athos continued, unaware of the intense interest of his audience. “I remember him as a gentleman, loyal to the crown. If there is any truth to the rumors of Colbert’s whereabouts, I believe you can count on the Baron’s assistance.”

“Shall we mention your name?”

Athos shrugged. “After all that has happened, I doubt it would help. But he will lend aid no matter.”

Despite finding his former wife alive and well and living in Paris, Athos still held himself accountable for what had happened to his brother and to her. No amount of consolation – nor wine – had been able to lift that self-imposed blame.

“Good to know,” Porthos placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. “I hope the rumors are true. After all the trouble he’s caused, I’ll be gratified to see the little weasel in the Bastille where he belongs.”

“I heartily concur,” Aramis nodded. “But, unfortunately it seems the man has a flair for avoiding capture. If we do find him, I doubt he will return to Paris without a bit of… persuasion.”

Porthos’ grin was feral. “I’m countin’ on it.”

“Then I believe you should be on your way,” Athos pushed himself from the table, waiting as the others followed suit. “It will be easier for d’Artagnan and I to suffer through our duty knowing this whole business may very well be near an end.” He shook Porthos’ hand, waiting for Aramis to round the table and doing the same. “Ride safe, my friends.”

Aramis placed his hat on his head and grinned. “We shall.” He leaned close, his voice low. “And please do me a favor, dear Athos. If the King should tap another barrel of his fine wine today, keep d’Artagnan and yourself out of the line of fire.”

“Or remember to duck,” Porthos added.

“I shall strive to remain in one piece until your return.”

With another nod to their friend, the two Musketeers crossed the courtyard to their waiting mounts and began their journey south.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The brisk morning air soon warmed and the two Musketeers relaxed as they rode deeper into the French countryside. They stayed clear of the small villages and hamlets along the road, content in each other’s company as the sun rose in the brilliant blue sky.

“The sky is such an exquisite shade of azure, today, Porthos.” Hands loose on the reins, Aramis tilted his head back, trusting his horse to remain true to their path. “As beautiful as the eyes of the charming Madame Montagne.”

“Or the face of Monsieur Montage when he catches you with her,” Porthos retorted. 

“Not even your sour humor can ruin the splendor of what lies before us,” The marksman’s smile never wavered, his eyes darting around, taking in the beauty of the landscape. “Does not the magnificence of all this speak to your heart?” 

“I have seen it before, you know.”

“Yes, dear Porthos, but have you ever seen it in such wondrous detail? Such vivid facets of color and light?”

Porthos chuckled fondly, happy to see his friend in such good spirits. After the weeks of darkness and doubt, he could not find it in himself to taint Aramis’ enthusiasm. It was a miracle the marksman’s sight had returned to its normal sharpness, and Porthos would do nothing to dampen the pleasure the man was taking in the view of what he’d missed.

Porthos made a show of looking around, then up at the sky, squinting as the brilliant sun breached the brim of his hat. “It’s pretty,” he managed, smirking at the sigh of exasperation that leaked from Aramis’ lips.

“Pretty?” the marksman chided. “I would hope you could be a bit more descriptive than that.”

Porthos laughed aloud. “It’s a gorgeous day,” he finally relented. “And knowing we escaped another dreary day standing around the woods while the King and his lot shot up the trees makes it all the better.”

Aramis’ laughter joined with Porthos’. “Yes, D’Artagnan looked quite upset. Though after a few bottles, he seemed resigned to his fate. I do hope Athos will be able to bolster his spirits somewhat before we return.”

“It’s a good lesson for the whelp,” Porthos shrugged. “At least we were spared.” He looked askance at his friend. “I suppose I should thank you for that.”

Aramis beamed, obviously quite pleased with himself. “Careful, my friend, Athos would be quite disappointed if he found you were encouraging mischief.”

Porthos couldn’t contain a chuckle. “What Athos doesn’t know…” 

The journey, though long and tedious, was quite pleasant and the two Musketeers decided to make camp in a secluded glade as the sun began to set below the horizon. Lying on the soft grass, watching the twinkling stars above, Porthos could only smile at the relaxed, contented sigh from the man beside him. He drifted off to sleep, comfortable in the knowledge that the weeks of fear for his friend’s wellbeing was a thing of the past.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

D’Artagnan snuck another look at Athos’ profile as the man stared into his cup. They had been released from duty much sooner than expected, the King’s hunt not as prosperous as it had been the previous day. Without Aramis there to assist with the King’s aim, Louis had been unable to hit anything but a few trees and the hat of one of the Red Guards who wasn’t paying enough attention to the inebriated guests of the court. 

The King had indeed tapped another barrel of wine, much to the Musketeers’ dismay, but had not imbibed quite so heavily himself – probably due to the evident effects of the previous day’s indulgence… or the Queen’s disapproval. Whatever the cause, it pleased d’Artagnan to see a more restrained monarch, still merry, but hardly as far in his cups as the previous day.

Athos had been reserved throughout their duty. At first d’Artagnan had assumed it was because of his disapproval of the courtiers’ behavior, but as his mood had not changed since their dismissal and return to the garrison, the young Musketeer had begun to wonder if his friend’s reticence was due to something other than their tedious duty and the King’s lack of good judgment. 

Serge had served them up plates of meat and cheese upon their return, but Athos had pushed his away, pouring some spiced ale into a cup and drinking it down quickly. Since then he had refilled the cup, but had not taken a drink; instead sat as a statue, staring into the liquid, his mind obviously somewhere far from where they currently sat.

“They can take care of themselves,” the younger man hazarded a guess, assuming the swordsman’s thoughts were with their two absent comrades. Though he had proven that his sight was indeed back to its normal sharpness the day before, d’Artagnan still found himself concerned for Aramis’ state of mind, knowing the weeks of recovery had not been easy for the normally charming and outgoing Spaniard. He had kept to himself in his small house while the bandages remained around his eyes, only coming back to them as the time for them to be removed drew nearer. He couldn’t blame the man for being nervous about the outcome – he knew he would have been a wreck had he had to deal with such fears – but Aramis had kept an outward appearance of calm, only letting the cracks in his armor show a few times when the doubt became too heavy for him to bear alone.

Porthos and Athos had been there for him at those times, d’Artagnan stepping back, not knowing how welcome his support would be. He hadn’t known them for long and although they had assured him he was welcome, his place among them secure, he was still hesitant to intrude upon their brotherhood lest his presence become more of an intrusion than well-meant assistance.

Athos swallowed another sip of ale before dipping his head in response. “Of that I have no doubt.” He grinned. “Despite Aramis’ penchant for finding trouble, I have no doubt both he and Porthos are well equipped to handle themselves if it should find them.”

“Then what has been troubling you?”

Athos sighed and rubbed wearily at his eyes. “Nothing… it is simply a feeling… one I am at a loss to explain.”

“You’re worried.” It was a statement, not a question.

Athos nodded slowly. “Yes. I suppose I am, though I have no idea why.” He waved a hand as if to erase the thought. “I suppose these last few weeks have made me a bit more uneasy than normal. Please forgive me for being such a dreary dinner companion.”

D’Artagnan pursed his lips and took a deep breath through his nose. When he had been accepted into their ranks, he had learned almost immediately to trust the instincts of these men when it came to each other, so despite Athos’ dismissal, he found himself ill at ease. 

Before he could respond, footsteps on the stairs caught their attention and they raised their heads to find Captain Treville stepping down onto the dirt of the courtyard.

“Gentlemen,” he greeted as he approached the table. “You’re back early. I’m glad to see you survived the King’s hunt in one piece.”

Athos dipped his head in response. “His Majesty was much more reserved in his revelry today.”

“I’m sure he was.” Treville chuckled. “Shall I assume the King was not quite as successful as yesterday?”

D’Artagnan returned his commander’s grin. “Unless you count villainous trees and malevolent hats, I would say His Majesty was less than pleased.” 

Treville sighed. “A displeased Louis is not an amusing thought, but I suppose it is for the best.” He narrowed his eyes as he took in Athos’ concerned countenance. “I take it the day’s events are not what is troubling you?”

Athos shook his head. “It is nothing, Captain.”

“Athos has been harboring a feeling that Aramis and Porthos are in danger.”

Athos glared at the younger man, but d’Artagnan met his gaze with raised brows, daring him to dispute the statement.

“I have been… ill at ease,” he finally relented. “Though I have no rational reason to feel this way. I know the Baron ‘Orbec. As I told our brothers, he was a longtime friend of my father’s, and I know him to be a good man and loyal to the crown. He will be more than willing to aid them should the rumors of Colbert’s presence prove true.”

“Your father knew the Baron?” d’Artagnan asked, instantly interested. He was always eager to learn more about these men, taking any opportunity to inquire into their closely guarded pasts.

Athos nodded, reluctantly. “Yes. They hunted together since they were boys. I am quite sure Aramis and Porthos can rely on him should they require assistance.”

“I’m afraid you are mistaken,” Treville frowned. “The Baron d’Orbec is a young man, not much older than yourself. I’m sorry to be the one to inform you, but the man you are referring to must have been his father who passed a few years ago.”

Athos eyes widened and his hands gripped the cup tightly. “The current Baron is the son? Jean du Merle?”

At Treville’s nod, he immediately stood, setting the cup down hard enough to spill the contents over the top. “We must ride to Brenne at once.”

“I thought –“

“Jean du Merle is not the man his father was,” Athos interrupted, cutting the Gascon off harshly. His eyes blazed as he returned his attention to Treville. “The son is a ruthless, sadistic bastard,” he said, ignoring the look of surprise on the Captain’s face. “I told Aramis and Porthos they could trust the man – even use my name if they thought it would help. I fear if that comes to pass, the opposite may happen. Jean du Merle is the kind of man who would do anything for money – even hide a criminal such as Colbert. He is not to be trusted.”

Treville stared at him a moment, assessing, but Athos remained adamant and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but wonder what had happened that had made his friend hate this new Baron with such a passion. If the Baron was the type of man Athos believed and the rumors of Colbert’s whereabouts was true, it would prove to be quite a coincidence – something none of them found reassuring. 

Obviously Treville had reached the same conclusion. “I will expect a full accounting of your statement when you return,” the Captain finally conceded. “You obviously feel strongly about this. If you believe your brothers are in danger concerning this Baron, I will accept your assessment and allow you to ride out in the morning. You will be but a day behind them. If Colbert is hiding there, find him and bring him back. That is your mission. You will only deal with the Baron if the need arises.”

Athos nodded and grabbed his hat from the table. “We will make our preparations to leave at dawn.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

It was barely after supper when the two Musketeers rode into Brenne, drawing whispers and attention as they brought their horses to a stop outside the stables. As they dismounted, they took notice of the looks of fear and apprehension their uniforms had garnered.

“Looks like they’ve never seen a Musketeer before,” Porthos noted darkly.

“Do not be too hard on them,” Aramis countered. “It is hardly good fortune that usually brings the King’s guard this far from Paris. One cannot blame these good people for their curiosity or their wariness.”

Porthos snorted in concession. “Perhaps. But I still don’t like the way they’re lookin’ at us.”

“That is because you are not as accustomed to being looked at as I.” Aramis grinned and slapped the larger man on the back as they led the horses to the stable, tying the reins to the post just outside. “Trust me, no harm will come of a smile or two.”

Porthos grunted again, but made an effort to smile at a plump man who was scurrying down the road just beyond the stable. The man stumbled as he quickened his pace, moving away from them as if running from a fire.

Aramis chuckled as he adjusted the hat on his head. “We’ll work on your delivery,” he assured his friend as he turned to survey the buildings around them. “I believe a drink would be in order.” He nodded his head toward a building that looked to be a tavern of some sort. “Perhaps we can begin our inquiries there?”

Porthos, still staring after the portly man, sighed and shook his head. He patted his horse’s flanks and stepped around the animal to join his friend. “Maybe the barmaid will be a bit more friendly.”

Aramis tapped the back of his hand to Porthos’ chest crisply and gave him a wide grin. “That’s the spirit!” 

At Porthos’ answering grin, he turned and made his way to the tavern.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Despite Aramis’ most charming countenance, the people of Brenne had treated them coldly, refusing to answer their questions, eyeing them suspiciously when not ouright avoiding them completely. At first Porthos had found it amusing to see his friend’s normal charisma fail to sway even the barmaid to their favor, but the more people turned a cold shoulder to them, the more he began to suspect the fault did not lie in Aramis’ friendly overtures, but in the people themselves.

“I can’t explain it,” Aramis groused as they made their way back toward the stable after having yet another door slammed in their faces. “I’ve never been this disliked before.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Porthos slapped a hand on his friend’s back. “They all seem to be runnin’ scared. I’ve seen the looks before, in the court.”

“But why would they be afraid of us? We haven’t done anything but ask a few questions – or try to. They all act as if we are here to accuse them of treason.”

Porthos could only shrug as the marksman echoed the questions running about inside his own head. “I think it’s time we looked up that Baron friend of Athos’, he suggested. “Maybe he can tell us what’s got these people so spooked.”

Aramis nodded and Porthos reached for the door of the stable, freezing when footsteps sounded behind them. Turning quickly, hand on the butt of his pistol, the Musketeer encountered a young boy – no more than 12 years of age – standing tautly, eyes wide. The boy slowly raised his hands, his gaze shifting back and forth between Aramis and Porthos.

“I mean no harm,” he squeaked, wary. 

Porthos glanced to his side to see that Aramis had fully drawn his own weapon and had it pointed toward the boy. 

“It is unwise to sneak up behind armed men,” the marksman cautioned. He lowered his pistol and took a step toward the boy. “Especially considering the less than friendly reception this town has to offer.”

The boy waited until both men had returned their pistol to his belt before lowering his arms. He licked his lips, swallowing nervously. 

Aramis took another step forward, and ran an eye over the boy’s thin frame. “What is your name, lad?” 

The boy smiled tentatively and executed an awkward bow. “David de la Pailleterie at your service, Monsieur.”

Aramis grinned at the grand gesture. He removed his hat and placed it over his heart, dipping his head in response. “I am Aramis of the King’s Musketeers.” He waved the hat to his right. “And this is Porthos.”

“Is he a Musketeer, too?” David asked. He nodded toward Porthos, his voice a low whisper.

“I am,” Porthos answered. He stepped up beside his friend and narrowed his eyes, knowing his size alone would intimidate the waif. “What service can you provide Monsieur de la Pailleterie?”

The boy stepped back, but squared his shoulders and took a deep breath before answering. “You have been asking questions about a stranger, a man of small stature who has a lot of money.”

The two Musketeers exchanged twin looks of surprise.

“Have you seen such a man?” Aramis asked.

David nodded enthusiastically. “He is a guest of the Baron d’Orbec. I have seen him riding in the Baron’s coach.”

Porthos frowned. “Are you sure?”

David nodded again. “The man you seek is named Colbert, is he not?”

Aramis kneeled down, bringing him closer to David’s height. “You have heard him called by name?”

“Yes,” David assured. “I sometimes work in the Baron’s stables. I heard them speaking, this Monsieur Colbert and the Baron.”

Aramis looked back over his shoulder to Porthos, who shook his head in confusion. Athos had assured them the Baron was a man they could trust, but if this boy was speaking the truth, it would seem the Baron d’Orbec was not as loyal as their friend believed.

“We should speak with the Baron ourselves,” Aramis determined, rising to his full height and replacing his hat upon his head. “Perhaps he is simply holding Colbert prisoner until we could arrive to take him back to Paris?”

Porthos rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “Makes as much sense as anything. Except who allows a prisoner the use of a coach?”

It was Aramis’ turn to shrug. “I believe that is a question for the Baron himself.” He turned back to David, who had been listening with rapt attention. “Can you show us the way to the Baron’s estate?”

“Of course,” David agreed. “But the Baron’s chateau is heavily guarded, you would do well to approach with caution.” He eyed the Musketeers’ weapons belts, and Porthos had the feeling they had been found wanting.

“We have no fight with the Baron,” Porthos insisted. “We were told by a very reliable source that he was a good man, in fine standin’ with the crown.”

A derisive huff escaped the boy’s lips. “I am afraid you have been misinformed, Monsieur. Perhaps you speak of the old Baron. He was a fine patron, good to the people of this village. But that cannot be said of the new Baron.”

“New Baron?” Aramis repeated. 

“His son,” David replied. “He is… not as kind as his father. It is why the people you have spoken to would not answer your questions. They are afraid.”

“But not you?” 

David raised his head and folded his arms across his chest. “I fear no one.”

“Of course not.” Porthos smiled, charmed by the boy’s show of bravado. “And neither are we with you there to escort us.” He motioned toward the Inn across the road. “But first, I think we should grab something to eat and get a good night’s rest.” He dug a coin from his purse and tossed it to David. “Why don’t you go to the Inn and see if you can secure us a room and some food?”

With an eager nod, David hurried away to do as he was bid. As soon as the boy was out of earshot, Porthos turned to his friend to see him staring after the lad, a pensive look clouding his face.

“You make anything out of that?”

Aramis took a deep breath through his nose and shook his head, shifting his eyes to Porthos. “It seems Athos was mistaken – or simply unaware of the change of title.”

“You think this Baron is as bad as the lad is making him out to be?”

Aramis shrugged. “It’s no illusion these people are afraid of something. Athos insisted the Baron was a good man, but we have no idea what to expect from his son.”

“Then I suppose all we can do is ask, huh?”

“I suppose it is.”

TBC


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter 3**

The room provided them was dusty but well kept. The narrow beds, though hard, were more comfortable than the cold ground, so the Musketeers awoke fresh and revitalized, ready to start their search. David greeted them when they stepped into the tavern, intent on having some breakfast before embarking on their journey to the Baron’s estate. Seeing the boy eyeing the food hungrily, Porthos placed some bread and jam on a plate and shoved it across the table. The lad devoured it with a grateful smile.

Once on their way, David became more talkative, answering their questions about the town and his family easily. It was only when they mentioned the Baron that the boy hesitated. The more they inquired about the Baron d’Orbec and his practices, the less David seemed inclined to speak. If Athos had not assured them of the Baron’s integrity, he would be uncertain as to their reception. It was obvious their friend had been referring to the deceased Baron when he’d explained d’Orbec’s connection to his family, but surely the son couldn’t be as different from the father as David’s reaction led them to believe.

“Perhaps it is a mistake,” David said suddenly. Having grown quiet as they neared the edge of the estate, the boy had taken on a look of remorse, though what the lad could have to feel contrite about the Musketeers had no idea.

“What’s a mistake?” Porthos inquired as they topped a rise. The Baron’s large chateau stretched out across the green expanse before them, and the large man whistled in appreciation of its size and grandeur. “Seems we found the right place, eh?”

David swallowed and nodded, his eyes cast down. He rode with Porthos, perched on the front of the saddle, both legs dangling over one direction, but he kept his gaze on the ground, brow furrowed, his lips pursed as if having tasted something sour.

Aramis narrowed his eyes as he took in the boy’s countenance. “You are afraid the Baron will not welcome us?”

David nodded, but did not raise his head. “The Baron has many men,” he said in a soft voice, “and you are but two.”

Aramis exchanged a look with Porthos, who merely shrugged in reply. 

“So you have reason to believe the Baron’s men will cause us harm?”

David shrugged. “As I said before, he is not a good man.”

Aramis sighed and pushed his hat back on his head. He leaned a forearm against the pommel of his saddle and let his eyes drift around the estate below them. There were indeed many men about the grounds, his keen eyes taking in the weaponry displayed amongst them.

“They are well armed,” he said with a twitch of an eyebrow. “But one would expect guards to be prepared. We are no different.”

“You are very different,” David argued. His head shot up and he turned to look at Porthos before turning his eyes to Aramis. “The Baron’s men are cruel. They laugh when they –,” the words cut off abruptly and the two Musketeers shared another look of confusion.

“When they what, lad?”

David flinched as Porthos laid a hand on his shoulder, but the Musketeer did not release it, instead he moved it carefully toward the boy’s neck and squeezed affectionately. 

“It’s all right,” Aramis soothed. “What did these men do to you, David?”

The boy swallowed hard and closed his eyes, letting a trembling breath escape his lips. “The Baron’s stable master found me sleeping in the stables,” he explained, his voice low and soft. “He accused me of stealing from the Baron.” He looked up quickly, his eyes wide, pleading. “I didn’t,” he exclaimed. “I am no thief!”

Aramis held up a placating hand. “Easy, lad. We believe you. What happened when they found you?”

“They took me before the Baron. He was just arriving in his coach.”

“Is that when you saw Colbert?”

David craned his neck to meet Porthos’ questioning eyes. “Yes, they were just returning to the estate.” He turned back to Aramis and continued his narrative. “The stable master lied, told the Baron he had caught me stealing red-handed. The Baron ordered them to whip me but…” he broke off, a sob escaping his throat. 

Porthos rubbed his hand across the boy’s trembling back, his face clouded with anger. “Looks like we should have a word with this Baron.”

David turned abruptly, grasping Porthos’ arm. “No, please, do not confront him. This is not the first time. He will only punish us more harshly after you leave.”

Porthos sighed, realizing the boy was probably right, but his anger at the situation was not abated by the lad’s pleas. “Somebody should stand up to him,” he argued, raising his gaze to meet Aramis’. “It ain’t right.”

Aramis knew how badly this kind of injustice affected his friend, despite the fact it was well within the Baron’s rights to govern the people of his lands as he saw fit. He returned his attention to David who had lowered his head again, refusing to make eye contact with either of them.

“David, you said this was not the first time. The Baron has had you punished before?” David didn’t answer and the Musketeer took it as confirmation of his suspicions. “Has no one championed you? Has no one tried to stop this type of punishment?”

David nodded. “My father… others have tried to speak to the Baron since the old man died. But… some return beaten and some… they don’t return at all.” He raised his head and Aramis’ breath caught in his throat at the despair in the boy’s eyes. “My father…” David’s shoulder’s shook as tears began to fall from his eyes.

Aramis rubbed a hand across his face, not needing further explanation to know the fate of the boy’s father. “We will speak to the Baron,” he assured. “If what you say is true, we can report this to the King –.”

David shook his head and closed his eyes. “No, no… you cannot… I cannot do this…” 

Before either of the men could react, David slid off the front of Porthos’ horse and darted away, soon disappearing into the trees on the edge of the path.

They stared after him for a moment before turning back to the estate. 

“Poor lad,” Porthos growled. “Seems as if Athos was mistaken.”

“Athos spoke of the father, not the son,” Aramis reminded him. “Though I find myself wishing our dear Comte was with us now.”

Porthos breathed heavily through his nose. “What do you say we go have a little chat with this Baron?” He smiled, the action more predatory than friendly. “I believe we have a few things to discuss with him.”

Aramis nodded and kicked his horse into action, falling in beside his friend. “Just keep in mind our mission is to find Colbert,” he cautioned. “The Baron’s practices are not our primary concern at the moment.”

Porthos frowned and looked at his friend askance. “You suddenly becoming the voice of reason?”

Aramis smiled, his dark eyes shining with mischief. “I said he wasn’t our primary concern, Porthos. I did not say he was not of interest.”

Porthos laughed. “That’s more like it.” 

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

They were admitted to the house, flanked by four of the Baron’s armed guards. They were not asked to relinquish their weapons and Porthos followed Aramis’ lead, keeping his hands from the grip of his sword, though it took all his will power to do so. Aramis smiled cordially to the servant who opened the door and showed them into a lavishly decorated parlor, ignoring the guards as they stationed themselves on either side of the door.

“Friendly lot,” Porthos observed, keeping his voice low as he surveyed the room. The gilded chairs and settee looked small and uncomfortable, probably intended to discourage unwanted guests from feeling welcome – a successful ploy, Porthos had to admit.

Aramis wandered toward one of the large, glazed floor-to-ceiling windows, looking mildly interested in the estate lawns beyond. One side of Porthos’ mouth lifted in a grin, knowing full well it wasn’t what was outside the glass that held the marksman’s scrutiny, but more what was reflected in its smooth surface. His friend was studying the guards – observing their movements and reactions, assessing their aptitude and readiness without their knowledge. Aramis’ ability to size up an opponent was second only to Athos’ and Porthos was ready to aid in any way he could. 

He stepped toward one of the settees, the sudden movement causing the guards to flinch. As he ambled about the room, picking up small tokens and items of obvious value, the guards tensed, shifting on their feet, not sure of how to proceed. Catching Aramis’ grin in the window’s reflection, he purposely fumbled a small, expensive looking figurine before catching it and returning it to its place unharmed.

One of the guards cleared his throat and Porthos gave him a wide-eyed look of apology before dropping down onto one of the chairs, wincing as the fragile looking piece of furniture creaked under his weight. He’d been right, the chairs were as uncomfortable as they looked – and obviously not meant to support people of his bulk. Despite the dichotomy of size, he smiled at the guards and leaned back, crossing his feet at the ankles as he settled in.

Aramis’ low chuckled carried across the room.

They were kept waiting long enough for Porthos’ butt to become numb and his patience to become strained. Finally, the doors opened and a well-coiffed man of about their age breezed into the room.

“I am so sorry to have kept you waiting,” the Baron said with a smile, brushing an imaginary stray hair back from his face. “It is not every day we are graced with a visit from His Majesty’s elite guard.” The Baron stepped to the center of the room, his brows raised and waited for the two Musketeers to approach him.

Porthos wrestled himself out of the tiny chair and stepped to Aramis’ side as the marksman moved from his place near the window. Aramis held his hat in his hand and bowed his head in deference to the man’s title.

“My Lord, we bring greetings from His Majesty.”

The Baron returned the bow, and Porthos’ felt the nobleman’s eyes assessing the two men before him. A look of repugnance fluttered across his countenance as he glanced at Porthos, and he dismissed the Musketeer with a sniff before returning his attention to Aramis, his smile strained but cordial. 

“And to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

Aramis frowned. “You sent a report to Paris concerning a man by the name of Colbert, a criminal and traitor to the crown.”

“Ah, yes,” d’Orbec sighed. He shook his head ruefully, and Porthos nearly laughed at the terrible display of acting. “I’m afraid it was but a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Porthos kept his voice steady, but the underlying disbelief was evident in his tone.

The Baron looked at Porthos, his eyes narrowing before focusing again on Aramis. “I’m afraid the man believed to be your perpetrator was indeed a simple wanderer just passing through. I regret that you had to make such a journey for naught.”

Aramis shrugged, his smile hard, obviously having noted the Baron’s slight to his friend. “That is disappointing. His Majesty is very eager to bring Colbert to justice.”

The Baron raised his brows, curious. “I did hear the man had made off with quite a bit of royal gold. Are these rumors true?”

Aramis shrugged. “I’m afraid I have little knowledge of such things,” he replied. “I am but a soldier following orders.”

Disappointment flickered across the Baron’s face before he carefully schooled his expression once again. “Ah, a pity. But I suppose someone like you is not privy to the goings on of Louis’ court.”

Porthos bristled at the man’s snide tone, but Aramis merely returned the Baron’s smile. “Unfortunately, we are not.”

“Then it would seem your business here is concluded.” The Baron turned to step toward the door, but was halted by Aramis’ voice.

“There is another matter, my Lord.”

D’Orbec turned back, his annoyance clear. “What else could you possibly have to say to me?” He rose to his full height and looked down his nose at the Musketeer. 

Aramis, accustomed to such treatment from men of title, tilted his head, returning the Baron’s gaze evenly.

“We made inquiries of the people of Brenne, but were shown little welcome. The people seemed to be quite fearful of something. Perhaps you could enlighten us?”

The Baron bristled for a moment, but quickly brought his irritation under control. “The people in the village are a lazy, good for nothing lot. They barely work hard enough to pay their taxes and seem to believe stealing from their master is something that will be tolerated.” His lips rose in an ugly grin. “I assure you, Monsieur, it will not.”

“You would whip a child your men accused of stealing?”

D’Orbec glanced at Porthos but still did not acknowledge him, instead choosing to respond strictly to Aramis, his indignation showing in his narrowed eyes. “I am well within my rights to punish those in servitude to this estate who transgress.”

Aramis nodded, conceding the point. “Yes, you are. I was merely inquiring. No disrespect intended.”

The Baron studied him for a moment, finally returning the nod, satisfied with the apology.

“Tell the King I am sorry for his troubles. My men will escort you out.” With another huff of indignation, the Baron marched from the room, leaving the two Musketeers staring at the four guards posted near the door.

“That went well,” Porthos remarked, his voice low, his disdain for the Baron obvious. “Quite the charmer if you ask me.”

Aramis placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You and I have distinctly different ideas of charm, my friend.” He motioned with his head toward the door and the two Musketeers made their way from the room, nodding at the dour looking guards as they passed. As soon as they had reclaimed their horses and passed through the ornate gate of the estate, they both heaved a sigh of relief.

“The pompous ass,” Porthos seethed. “He thinks just because he’s got a title he can treat these people like dirt?” It wasn’t as if he didn’t understand how the class system worked, he just didn’t see what good came of it. The injustice the people of lower birth suffered was something he’d known first hand and had never been quite able to shake. The fear they’d seen on the faces of the people of Brenne reminded him of the despair he’d seen all around him inside the Court of Miracles. It was enough to make him want to help them despite the less than stellar welcome they had received.

“Unfortunately, he was right,” Aramis reminded him. “The people of Brenne live on his land and he has the right to treat them as he sees fit.”

Porthos yanked on the reins, bringing his horse to a halt. He rounded on Aramis, leaning over the pommel of the saddle, contempt shining in his dark eyes. “And that makes it right?” He knew his friend did not condone the poor treatment of the working class any more than he, but his anger at the Baron’s slight burned bright and Aramis was the only one he could take it out on at the moment.

The marksman stopped just in front of him and held up a hand defensively. “I didn’t say that. I just said it was within his rights as the Lord of this land.” He shrugged, obviously not liking the situation – or the Baron – any more than Porthos. “I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is and you know it better than anyone.”

Porthos seethed for a moment then slumped, lowering his gaze, his previous fire of indignation quickly dying to a charred ember. “I know.” He looked askance at Aramis, knowing his friend did not deserve his wrath. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“There is no need for apologies, Porthos,” Aramis tone was soft, tolerant. “I feel the same as you. I wanted to run the man through for the way he looked at you.”

“Which would’ve done nothing other than land you in a cell,” Porthos conceded, sighing. “Or the end of a rope. But I appreciate the thought.”

“It was more than just a thought, my friend,” Aramis assured him. 

Porthos nodded, giving his friend an exasperated smile and they steered their horses back down the road.

“You think he was telling the truth?” Porthos asked after a long silence. “About Colbert?”

Aramis shook his head and snorted a laugh through his nose. “The Baron is a less convincing liar than Athos. No, I believe Colbert is here, and has more than likely tempted the Baron with the King’s gold. If I’ve read the man correctly, he has probably already made his deal with the devil.”

Porthos hummed in agreement as they rounded a bend in the road, ducking his head to avoid a low branch from a nearby tree. “So what do we do? If Colbert is here, we can’t let him get away again.”

“Treville gave us orders to send word if the report was true,” Aramis assessed, thinking out loud. “But we have no proof that the Baron is being deceitful.”

“The boy told us he’s seen Colbert.”

Aramis held up a hand, one finger extended in the air. “He said he’s seen a man who fits Colbert’s description,” he clarified. “The Baron himself admitted to this, but said it was a simply a case of mistaken identity.”

“True,” Porthos growled. “Seems like the lad is a more trustworthy if you ask me.”

“I agree. Unfortunately, the Captain would not. We need to find out for ourselves before we send word to Paris.”

Before Porthos could agree with the marksman’s plan, five men charged from the tree line, swords drawn, startling the horses. Porthos fought to restrain his mount, but the animal reared, throwing him off before he could regain control. As he rolled across the hard packed dirt, he caught a glimpse of Aramis being dragged from his own horse near the edge of the ravine on the far side of the road. The marksman had his sword drawn and slashed once at his attackers before being pulled from view.

“Aramis!” Porthos called, pushing himself to his feet, only to be met by three men rushing toward him. They plowed into him in unison, the sheer force of their momentum taking him down. He rolled to get away, pushing two of them off and scuttling back, but the third caught his foot and twisted his leg, flipping him back onto his stomach. He screamed as his knee popped, floundering for a moment as the pain made his stomach lurch. Before he could kick out with his other leg, the men were on him, pinning him. As he struggled, he heard one of them laugh, then a blunt force came down on the back of his head and the laughter faded to silence.

TBC


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter 4**

Despite the beauty of the landscape surrounding them as they rode, Athos’ mind was clouded by thoughts of his friends and what they may have encountered if they had taken his suggestion and requested aid from Jean du Merle. Though the Baron’s father had been a kind man, Jean had been little more than a tyrant when it came to those under his charge. He couldn’t count the number of times he and Thomas had been forced to associate with the older boy, neither of them approving of his questionable treatment of the servants or workers of the estates. His abuse of his father’s wealth and station was apparent even then, and Athos could only imagine that holding the actual title would increase his disdain for those he considered inferior. Of course, du Merle could have changed in the decades since they had last seen each other, but Athos could not imagine such a drastic transformation in a person so odious. 

“It’ll be sundown soon,” d’Artagnan piped up. “Perhaps we should find a good place to camp for the night?”

The lad had tried to strike up conversations numerous times throughout the long journey, but Athos had been disinclined to indulge in idle chitchat. Even when d’Artagnan had pointed out again that Aramis and Porthos were more than capable of handling themselves, Athos still could not let go of the dread that had invaded his thoughts at the mention of the new Baron d’Orbec. While he had the utmost trust and faith in his friends, he knew they were still bound by duty and honor, and he knew, without a doubt, that du Merle would not hesitate to take full advantage of that if given the opportunity. Though Aramis especially was not one to cow down to nobility, he would not take any slight to Porthos lightly, nor would the marksman bow to someone of the Baron’s ilk. If du Merle treated them with the derision Athos expected, neither of his friends would take it as anything but an affront to their honor.

“Athos?” d’Artagnan persisted. He waited until the older man acknowledged him before tilting his head toward the setting sun. “Camp?”

“Of course, d’Artagnan,” Athos responded, guilt for ignoring the younger man merged with the culpability he felt for encouraging Aramis and Porthos to seek out a man who could be a danger to them. “I’m afraid I have not been a pleasant traveling companion.”

D’Artagnan waved his apology away. “Your mind has been elsewhere, yes, but sometimes traveling without Aramis’ constant chatter is refreshing.”

The Gascon’s comment elicited a grin as expected.

“I’m certain Aramis would argue that point were he here.”

D’Artagnan returned the grin. “Then he will have his chance when we all return to Paris together.”

D’Artagnan’s confident words were appreciated, but Athos found he could not accept them until he saw with his own eyes his two missing comrades well and whole before him.

They found a suitable clearing to make camp just as the sun sank behind the trees, unsaddling the horses and collecting enough firewood to last the night before they lost the final light of day. As they settled in, chewing on some cold meat and bread Serge had packed, d’Artagnan finally voiced the question Athos had been expecting since they rode through the gates of the city that morning.

“Why do you dislike this Baron so?”

Athos sighed, leaning back against his saddle, staring into the dancing flames of the campfire.

“Jean du Merle was a cruel child who believed himself better than the common people of his father’s lands.”

D’Artagnan shook his head, confused. “That isn’t unusual,” he stated. “Many members of the nobility feel the same, present company excluded, of course.”

Athos nodded in gratitude, but didn’t argue the point. “True, but most of the higher born do not go out of their way to inflict pain upon their underlings simply because it is acceptable. Jean seemed to believe it was his duty to make sure the people who worked the land knew that he could do whatever he liked and that they were helpless to stop him.”

“Did he ever try to hurt you?”

Athos snorted a laugh. “He tried once but it would not have ended well if he had dared to touch either Thomas or myself. The people of the land owed the Baron their servitude, but a barony is a title bestowed by the King, a Comte is a title inherited from family born of nobility and he was well aware of it.”

“So you outranked him,” d’Artagnan smirked.

Athos nodded. “Yes, though I was much younger, his inheritance did not hold the same prestige as mine. Though that did not stop him from attempting to influence Thomas.” He shifted, his eyes loosing focus as the memory took hold. “We were visiting for a holiday, my father and the Baron were hunting, but Thomas was stricken with a terrible cough and they feared he would frighten the game, so we were left behind at the Baron’s chateau. Jean was ordered to entertain us.”

“I take it his idea of entertainment did not correspond to your own?”

“Hardly,” Athos admitted. “I had lost track of Thomas, finding him in the stables with Jean and one of the young stable boys. Du Merle had stripped the boy’s shirt and was striking him with riding crop. When I entered, I overheard him encouraging Thomas to take a turn whipping the poor boy. Of course I interfered, ordering Thomas to return to the main house and wrestling the whip away from Jean. The boy – who couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years of age – quickly ran away as we struggled. Being older and stronger than me, Jean prevailed, and he directed his wrath toward me for interrupting what he referred to as his proper discipline of the stable boy. 

“He raised the whip to strike me, but before he could carry out his threat, our fathers returned and quickly put an end to the altercation.”

Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, d’Artagnan listened intently, the light from the flames dancing in his dark eyes. “Was Jean punished?”

Athos shook his head. “His father apologized, assuring mine he would handle the situation, but my father told him he was sure I was as much at fault. They agreed to forget the entire thing and allow us to work things out for ourselves.” Athos tossed the piece of bread he’d been toying with into the fire, watching as it blackened and disappeared. “I believe that was the first time I actually considered the life I had been born into may not be the one I truly wanted to live.”

D’Artagnan remained silent for a moment as he considered what he’d just learned. Finally he straightened, his eyes narrowed as he spoke. “You believe Jean is still as cruel as he was then.”

It was more of a statement than a question, but Athos nodded in response nevertheless.

“I do not believe someone who considered himself so far above all else could change his views.”

It was d’Artagnan’s turn to nod his understanding. “And you don’t think this report of Colbert being sighted is a coincidence.”

“I’ve been a soldier long enough to be dubious of events so convenient.” Athos shrugged a shoulder. “Jean du Merle is the kind of man who would welcome Colbert and his gold without hesitation. If Colbert is hiding on d’Orbec lands, I can only imagine the lengths the Baron would go to assure that gold remain within his grasp.”

“So Aramis and Porthos could be walking into a trap.”

“One that I sent them into.”

“You didn’t know,” d’Artagnan reminded him.

He’d spent the entire day telling himself the same thing to little avail. “No, but that does not absolve me of the responsibility.”

“Even if they do speak with the Baron, it doesn’t mean he will make trouble for them,” d’Artagnan argued. “They are Musketeers. To purposely harm them would be an affront to the King himself.”

“Men like Jean du Merle do not believe themselves accountable for their actions,” Athos countered. “If what I fear is true, Aramis and Porthos are in more danger than they realize.”

D’Artagnan smiled confidently. “Then we’ll just have to find them and get them out of it.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis groaned, opening his eyes to… nothing. He blinked, his breath catching in his throat as the all too familiar darkness prevailed. He squeezed his eyes shut, his heart beating rapidly in his chest as the explosion in the alley beside the warehouse played in his memory…

No. That was weeks ago. His eyes had healed, the bandages removed, his vision back to normal.

He opened his eyes to the inky blackness surrounding him and fought back a sudden surge of panic. Why couldn’t he see?

Desperately needing answers, he shifted, the hard packed dirt beneath his cheek grating against his skin. His head exploded in pain and he swallowed down the bile that threatened to erupt, breathing through his nose until his stomach settled. He shifted again, tentatively, placing one hand on the ground and slowly rolling himself onto his back. He groaned again as his shoulder protested the movement and he pulled his left arm close to his chest, lying still as he attempted to control the pain.

Why was he lying in the dirt?

Forcing himself to calm, he took a deep breath and tried to make sense of the images running rampant through his mind. The last thing he remembered was speaking with the Baron who had denied the rumors of Colbert’s presence. Porthos had not believed the man any more than he –

Porthos! 

“You back with me?”

As if summoned by his thoughts, Aramis tilted his head toward the familiar voice and squinted into the shadowy darkness, just able to make out his friend sitting a few arm’s lengths away. Porthos was leaning against a wall, one leg bent, heel dug into the dirt, the other lying straight out in front of him. He couldn’t make out his friend’s features in the darkness, but was relieved to see the familiar form just the same.

Relaxing back into the dirt, he let his eyes drift heavenward, able to make out the moonlight behind the cloud cover in the sky above. The scant light reflected off the walls of earth that rose up around them.

They were in a hole – a very deep hole – which explained the dirt, Aramis concluded with a chuckle.

“Aramis?” Porthos’ voice took on a tinge of worry and Aramis figured he should probably respond to alleviate his friend’s concern.

“I’m…” He was about to say fine, but they both knew that would be a lie, so he settled for, “present.”

“About time,” Porthos grumbled. “Thought they might’ve dropped you on your head hard enough to do damage.”

Aramis couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped. “A worthy concern.” He touched a tender spot on the side of his head and winced at the sudden spark of pain. His hand come away tacky, and he didn’t have to see them to know his fingers were coated with congealed blood. “What happened? How did we end up in here?”

“No idea,” Porthos admitted. “I saw them pull you from your horse, then I got a bit distracted myself.”

“Huh,” Aramis grunted but didn’t make any attempt to move. Staring up was becoming a bit disorienting, so he closed his eyes and licked at dry lips before continuing. “You all right?”

“Twisted my knee, got a bit of a headache, but I’ll live. You?”

“It is dark, right?”

“Very.”

“Good,” Aramis sighed in relief; at least his sight was still intact. “Then I suppose I’m good.” He took a deep breath and pushed himself up, sliding until his back was against the wall, opposite his friend. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen our hosts?”

Porthos’ head scraped against the dirt wall as he shook it in response. “No, but I’m willing to bet next month’s pay we owe our current accommodations to the Baron himself.”

Aramis had already assumed the same. “But why? We were leaving. He had nothing to fear from us.”

“Didn’t seem like the kind of man who liked having his integrity called into question.”

“And here I thought we hid our suspicions so well.” Aramis sighed.

Porthos huffed a laugh. “Yeah, not one of your better performances.”

Aramis frowned, though he was not sure his friend could even see the gesture. “I didn’t believe him worth the effort.” He shifted against the wall, grunting as his shoulder flared painfully. He’d dislocated his shoulder a few times before and easily recognized the persistent ache that accompanied the injury.

“Aramis?”

“Shoulder’s out of joint,” he admitted with a hiss. He assumed his friend would make his way over to lend aid, so when Porthos asked if he could move closer to the other wall, he grew concerned, his attention shifting from his own discomfort to his unmoving friend.

“Porthos?”

“Knee,” the big man grunted as he moved his leg. “Bastard twisted it when he brought me down. Must’ve landed on it wrong when they tossed me down here. It won’t hold my weight.”

Aramis let his head fall back against the dirt wall behind him, regretting it immediately as the pain in his skull intensified.

“We’re quite the pair,” he groaned. “Even if we could see our way up, neither of us are in any condition to climb out of this hole.”

“Well, I doubt if there’s much we can do about my leg, but I could help with that shoulder if you could get closer.”

It was a painfully slow process, but Aramis finally made it to his knees, swallowing against the disorientation being dizziness in the darkness educed. Finally he was able to drop down next to Porthos and leaned his head on his friend’s pauldron, his eyes closed tight. He breathed shallowly until the nausea was under control, belatedly realizing he was most probably suffering from a concussion, but deciding to keep that information to himself for the time being.

“All right?” Porthos asked after a few moments.

Aramis nodded. “Just dizzy.”

“Getting’ hit in the head’ll do that.”

The marksman opened an eye, able to finally see his friend a bit more clearly due to their close proximity.

“Why is it always my head that invites violence?”

He could make out Porthos’ white teeth in the gloom as he smiled. “I thought you liked violence?”

“In my women, mon ami, not necessarily upon my person.”

Porthos chuckled. “Well, your head is beyond my skill to repair, but I can help with the shoulder. Can you turn around?”

It took some maneuvering, but they managed to get Aramis in a position that allowed Porthos to manipulate the joint back into place. It was a painful affair that neither man relished, but once it was done, Aramis sighed in relief, the pain receding to a dull ache that he could easily handle.

“So what do you think they’re gonna do with us?” Porthos asked after a long silence.

Aramis had been dozing against his friend’s shoulder, the ache in his head and shoulder keeping him from actually dropping off to sleep.

“I suppose they could just leave us down here,” Aramis mused. “Though it would be dangerous to assume we wouldn’t escape eventually.”

“So they’re probably coming back,” Porthos agreed. “But for what? If they wanted us dead, why not just kill us back on the road? Why go to all the trouble to drag us here?”

Aramis rolled his head against his friend’s pauldron. “There is little use speculating on the actions of scoundrels, dear Porthos – even if they are titled. We should try to rest. I am sure we will receive the answer to our questions soon enough.”

Porthos couldn’t argue with the logic. He crossed his arms on his chest, careful not to dislodge Aramis’ head, and settled in to wait.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos grunted awake, his knee throbbing as he shifted against the cold wall of dirt behind him. He quickly checked on Aramis, still sleeping restlessly, dark curls crushed against Porthos’ pauldron. He’d meant to stay awake, keep watch in case their captors returned in the night, but his exhaustion coupled with the unrelenting ache from his damaged leg had taxed his strength, and he’d found himself nodding off a few times as they waited for morning.

The darkness wasn’t all encompassing anymore, and Porthos could now make out the towering walls of their prison as the earth rose far above their heads. There were a few rocks and branches embedded in the dirt that would make effective handholds – if either of them were in any condition to make use of them. 

As his eyes roamed the small space they were trapped within, he noticed a waterskin lying near the wall a few paces to Aramis’ right. He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly very dry. He bent his knee, testing its mobility, but immediately stopped as the joint flared in pain. He hissed at the discomfort and clenched at his thigh, pressing his head back into the dirt behind him as he waited for the ache to pass.

“P’thos?”

Aramis’ voice was rough from sleep as he lifted his head and Porthos swore under his breath for waking his friend.

“It’s all right,” he responded, keeping his tone soft. “Just moved a bit too soon.”

Aramis sat up, blinking. In the encroaching light of day, Porthos could see the dried blood matting one side of the dark hair and read the pinched lines of pain around the marksman’s eyes.

“Head hurt?” The question wasn’t necessary, but it served to take Aramis’ attention off him for the moment.

Aramis raised a hand to his head, his nimble fingers pressing against the obvious wound. “Ow.”

Porthos chuckled, a sound resonating deep within his chest. “Then don’t poke at it, idiot.”

Aramis managed a smile as he leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed. “I will endeavor to do so if you will allow me to examine your leg.”

Porthos grunted in amusement. So much for his attempt at diversion. 

He nodded toward the far wall. “Actually, it’d be more helpful if you could reach that waterskin over there.” 

Aramis turned, squinting into the lingering shadows. “Apparently our captors didn’t wish us to die after all.” 

With a groan, he shifted to his right, reaching out with his good arm and snagging the edge of the waterskin. As he settled back against the wall, he held it out to Porthos, who shook his head adamantly. 

“Uh uh, you first,” the big man insisted. “You’ve lost some blood. Need to drink.”

Aramis rolled his head until he was looking at his friend through slightly glassy eyes. “I will not argue your logic, but I currently seem to have only one working hand, mon ami.”

Porthos dipped his head and took the skin, realizing with his arm tucked inside his doublet, Aramis would find it quite difficult to unlatch the skin. 

“Shoulder feeling better?” he asked as he deftly popped the stopper and handed the skin back to his friend.

Aramis accepted the skin and took a long drink, nodding as he handed it back to Porthos. He rolled the shoulder, wincing as the damaged joint protested.

“It aches, but I believe it will hold for now.” He craned his neck, his eyes rising to the top of the hole. “Though I’m not sure how much punishment it can take, I could attempt to make it to the top.” He returned his gaze to Porthos, taking in the swollen knee and the firm grip he still had on his thigh above it. Looking up, Porthos could read the silent question in his eyes and nodded, knowing the man would not rest until he made sure he had given Porthos’ injury whatever care he was capable of providing.

Scooting a bit further down the leg, Aramis placed his hand directly on the knee and began to palpate the joint, stopping only when Porthos’ leg jerked and he hissed in pain.

“I believe it only sprained,” the marksman announced. “Though it may be a day or two before it will feel secure enough for you to walk unaided.” He struggled to pull his blue sash from his waist one-handed, finally tugging it free and holding it out to Porthos. “Wet this with some of the water from the skin then bind it tightly around the joint. The cool water will help with the swelling and the bandage will give it some support.”

He scooted back, watching as Porthos did as instructed. By the time he had the leg bandaged to Aramis’ approval, the sun was above the horizon and the daylight had chased most of the shadows from their prison.

Aramis tilted his chin to some markings on the far wall of the hole. “Apparently we are not the first to inhabit these fine accommodations.”

Porthos studied the markings, realizing they were clawed out handholds from someone who had attempted to climb out of the hole. He let his eyes drift up, noting the markings ended about halfway up the wall.

“Doesn’t look like the former occupants were successful in their escape.”

“Yet there are no remains to indicate they perished here,” Aramis observed. “I can’t help but wonder what plans the Baron – if that is indeed who is behind our capture – has for us.”

Their attention was drawn to the top of the hole as they heard heavy footsteps approaching.

“I think we’re about to find out.”

TBC


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter 5**

Athos finished breaking camp as d’Artagnan saddled the horses, both men eager to get moving as soon as possible. They had eaten a meager breakfast of cheese and apples that d’Artagnan had been grateful to discover in their food sack, and had found themselves back on the road just as morning broke over the horizon.

They had spent a restless night, Athos’ concern for their friends filtering through to the younger Musketeer. If the swordsman was worried to the point of distraction, d’Artagnan could only take the situation seriously, his own imagination conjuring far too many images of their missing comrades’ possible peril. While he believed Aramis and Porthos could handle anything the Baron d’Orbec threw at them, he had never witnessed a reaction like this from his mentor, and the growing trepidation served to weave doubt into his own conviction.

“We should make it to Brenne by mid-day,” Athos informed him as they steered their mounts down the narrow road. “With luck, we shall find the others before they have leave to speak with the Baron.”

“And if they’ve already been to his estate?”

Athos sighed. “Then we shall find them and make sure they are unharmed.”

“I doubt either of them will be happy about our rush to their aid – especially if it’s unwarranted.”

Athos tilted his head in acceptance of the admonishment. “If that is the case, I will gladly ply them with wine and food until they find it in themselves to extend their forgiveness.”

D’Artagnan grinned. “I’m sure Porthos will take you up on that whether he feels insulted or not.”

“True,” Athos returned the grin. “Let us hope the situation allows us the opportunity to make amends.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The two captive Musketeers stared up at the approaching footsteps, neither bothering to move from their positions against the wall of the hole. A thick rope was tossed down as an unfamiliar face peered over the top.

“Climb on up, then,” the man ordered. He stood at the edge of the pit, one arm on his hip, the other hidden under a cloak. It was obvious from his stance, he was military – or had been at one time – and the Musketeers exchanged a glance, quickly deciding on a plan of action.

“That will be a bit difficult seeing as how you’ve managed to wrench my friend’s leg and damage my shoulder,” Aramis explained cordially.

The guard moved his right arm from beneath his cloak to reveal a very familiar, ornate pistol that he casually aimed at Porthos’ head.

“Don’t suppose we could hope for a misfire, eh?” the big man muttered, easily recognizing his friend’s well-kept weapon.

“Hardly,” Aramis grunted in resignation. He cleared his throat and pushed himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the earthen wall as his vision swam at the new elevation. As soon as the world steadied, he directed his attention back up to the guard. “I will attempt to comply, but my comrade, unfortunately, will not be able to make such a climb in his current condition.”

The guard looked away as if consulting with another, then nodded before tucking the pistol into his belt. “Make it quick,” he ordered gruffly and stepped back out of view.

Porthos sighed in relief. While the pistol in Aramis’ hands was a comforting thought, seeing it in someone else’s who had no idea how sensitive the trigger had been honed was disconcerting at best. 

He made a move to get his leg under him, but the joint had stiffened through the night and he couldn’t find the leverage to push himself from the ground.

“Easy, my friend,” Aramis soothed. “There is little good that will come of you further harming yourself.”

“I’m not lettin’ you go up there alone,” he gritted out, his hand squeezing just above the swollen knee in an attempt to alleviate some of the pain.

“I’ll be fine,” Aramis assured as he slowly rolled his shoulder. He winced at the ache the motion induced, but it seemed to function well enough now that the joint was back in place. Porthos had had his share of dislocations over the years and knew the pain was much worse before the joint was put back in place. Afterward, the discomfort was unpleasant, but tolerable even when the injured limb was put to use. 

Aramis moved across the small space to the rope and gave it a tug, finding it adequately secured above.

“Be careful,” Porthos warned. “Try not to say anything that’ll make matters worse.”

Aramis sputtered a laugh and waved a hand at their current accommodations. “As if things could be worse.” He turned back to Porthos as he placed both hands on the rope, smiling innocently. “Fear not, Porthos, I will be my most charming self, I assure you.”

Porthos snorted a laugh as his friend placed one foot against the wall and began his ascent. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

As he neared the top of the pit, rough hands gripped him under his arms and hauled him over the edge, dropping him onto his knees on the packed dirt surrounding the hole. He took a moment to catch his breath, leaning back far enough to meet Porthos’ eyes from the depths and silently assure his friend he was all right. Porthos’ smirk indicated he didn’t believe it for a moment and Aramis shrugged, wincing as his shoulder reminded him he was in less than perfect condition. The climb had done him little favor, and the ache of the damaged joint now sang in harmony with the pounding in his head. Clasping his arm to his torso, he sank back onto his haunches and raised his eyes to assess the situation.

He was in a small clearing, trees to three sides and a small shack to his right. There was a path, large enough for two horses abreast along the side of the shack, the trail leading deeper off and disappearing into the woods. Surrounded by six men including the one who had pointed Aramis’ own pistol at them, the marksman thought he recognized one of the others from the Baron’s estate, but since he hadn’t taken much notice of the guards at the time other than to appraise their weaponry, he couldn’t be sure. The situation was most definitely not to their advantage. They were wounded, outgunned and outnumbered… not to mention Porthos being trapped in a deep hole in the ground he probably wouldn’t be climbing out of without help. Aramis was sure they had been in more dire situations; but at the moment could not remember when.

“So,” he began, his face set in a charming grin. “Perhaps we should start with some introductions?”

He saw the kick coming from the corner of his eye and leaned forward, able to deflect the worst of the blow.

“Quiet, Musketeer,” the man growled. “You speak when you’re spoken to.”

Aramis settled back onto his heels, shaking his hair from his eyes. “You see, if you knew anything about me, you’d know that really isn’t my style.”

The slap to the head was unavoidable and he squeezed his eyes shut as the ache in his skull intensified.

The clip-clop of approaching horses drew his attention and he raised his head, squinting into the early morning light at the four mounted men as they entered the clearing. He was not surprised to see the Baron d’Orbec leading the small parade, but the slight figure of Jean-Baptiste Colbert following behind was unexpected. 

Aramis straightened his shoulders as the two men walked the short distance to the pit. While the Baron did not try to hide his amusement at the Musketeer’s disheveled appearance, Colbert, despite the surrounding guards, seemed a bit apprehensive with his proximity to the soldier.

“We meet again, Musketeer,” the Baron stopped directly in front of the captive man, a smug smile on his face, a cruel glint in his eyes. 

“I assure you it was far from our intent.”

D’Orbec shrugged. “I’m afraid you seemed less than reassured by our prior discussion. I could not allow you to leave with such an opinion of my honor.”

Aramis glanced behind the Baron, eyeing Colbert shrewdly. “An opinion with good merit it would seem.”

D’Orbec glanced behind him and shrugged, unrepentant. “Yes,” he turned back to Aramis, his smile still in place. “I’m afraid you were simply too observant for your own good. A trait I’m sure has served you well in the past.”

“But not in the present.”

“No,” the Baron agreed. He pulled of his gloves and waved them toward the pit behind the Musketeer. “I hope your accommodations were sufficient?”

Aramis refused to take the bait. “We’ve had worse.”

The Baron laughed. “I like you. You’re quite bold.” He stepped to the side and motioned toward Colbert. “You didn’t tell me these musketeers were so entertaining, my dear Colbert.”

“Perhaps it is because this one and I were never formally introduced.” The former finance Ministers stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back. “You are the Musketeer they call Aramis. I see you have recovered from your unfortunate accident.”

Aramis bristled at the man who was the cause of his temporary blindness. “If you mean the explosion your man caused in an attempt to throw us off your trail, then yes, I am fully recovered.”

“I understand it is you I have to thank for my current disfavor with the King.”

“You only have yourself to blame,” Aramis retorted. “But if you wish to bestow the honor upon me, it is gladly accepted.”

Colbert nodded, his eyes going cold. “Then taking my vengeance against you and your friend is not misplaced.” He turned to the Baron, returning the man’s smile. “Did I not assure you the King would send someone worthy of your game?”

“You were quite right, my friend.” D’Orbec made a show of taking Aramis’ measure, his narrow eyes deliberately raking up and down the Musketeers battered form. “Even in his present condition, I believe he will make much better sport than any of the pathetic wretches I’ve been forced to use as of late.”

Aramis, trying not to squirm under the Baron’s intense scrutiny, almost missed the meaning of the man’s words. David’s father, the men who had disappeared from the village… he swallowed, his eyes wide as he glared at the two men before him. Suddenly he was sure this was what the lad had been trying to tell them. The men weren’t missing, they were dead, hunted by the Baron in some twisted game.

“You’re hunting men like animals,” he accused, sickened. “The people from the village that have gone missing, you’ve murdered them for sport.”

The Baron laughed. “I think murder is a bit harsh. They were, after all, mere peasants, they served me and were mine to do with as I wished. They were all given a fair chance – as you will be given. Is it my fault they were not up to the challenge?”

A string of curses – inventive even for Porthos – erupted from the pit, and Aramis chuckled, adamantly agreeing with his friend’s outrage.

D’Orbec’s lip lifted in distaste at the cussing, and he let a long breath out through his nose. “Will someone please silence the curr?”

Immediately, the guard standing next to Aramis pulled the familiar pistol from his belt and aimed it into the pit.

“No!” Aramis struggled to his feet, launching himself at the guard, spoiling his aim as the gun fired. He quickly looked down, sighing in relief as Porthos returned his gaze, eyes blazing, breath heaving, but very much alive and unscathed.

The guard flipped the pistol and struck out, the stock connecting with the Aramis’ bad shoulder.

He winced at the blow but kept his eyes locked on Porthos’, silently assuring his friend he was all right and that he would do all he could to keep either of them from further harm. They had served together long enough for Porthos to understand his unspoken pledge and reluctantly nodded, tacitly promising to remain calm, trusting the marksman to play out the situation as he saw fit.

With Porthos’ capitulation, Aramis allowed himself a moment to regroup before returning his attention to the Baron. With effort born of practice, he squared his shoulders, ignoring the pain, and gave the man a defiant stare.

“You will not harm him.”

D’Orbec stepped forward, one side of his mouth lifted in an arrogant grin. “You are in no position to make demands, Musketeer.”

Aramis dipped his head, his eyes narrowed. “If you wish me to play your demented game, you will do as I ask.”

The Baron regarded him, finally motioning for the guard to step back. Aramis sighed in relief, glancing down at his friend and reading the unease in his eyes.

“My friend is wounded, but is still more than man enough to beat the likes of you.”

The guard struck out, catching him behind the knees and dropping him to the ground before the Baron. “Watch your mouth, Musketeer.”

D’Orbec held up a hand, his countenance showing his amusement. “Let him speak, Marchand. I find his audacity refreshing.”

Aramis pressed on, encouraged by the Baron’s response. “Give my friend water and food. He will be little use to you if he is starved.”

“And what will I get in return?”

“Prey worthy of a hunt.” Aramis challenged. “Me.”

“Aramis, no!”

The marksman ignored Porthos’ growled dissent, keeping his attention on d’Orbec, waiting as the Baron considered his offer.

Finally the Baron smiled, dipping his head in acceptance of the terms. “I have your word you will give me a good chase?”

“If I have yours that Porthos will not be harmed.”

“You do.” D’Orbec rubbed his hands together looking extremely pleased with himself. “I do like your confidence. I regret it will not serve to keep you alive for much longer.”

“You are making a serious mistake, my Lord,” Colbert interrupted. He pointed to Aramis, his irritation obvious. “You cannot trust these men. Hunt him if you must, but kill the other one. They are far more tenacious than you know.”

D’Orbec laughed, but Aramis could see his displeasure at being spoken to in such a tone. “I will hunt them both. It is, after all, what you promised me Minister, is it not?”

Aramis glared at Colbert who returned the look with one of loathing. “I suppose it is.”

D’Orbec huffed, satisfied. “Your demands will be met,” the Baron promised Aramis. “The curr will have his chance to play once you are dead.” He turned to Marchand, waving a hand toward the small shack on the edge of the clearing. “Prepare him,” he ordered. “The hunt will commence in one hour.”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos sat staring up as the guards dragged Aramis away, unable to catch his friend’s eye before he disappeared from view. As the sounds of struggle faded into the distance, the guard – Marchand – peered over the edge, shoving Aramis’ pistol into his belt with a smug grin.

“I’m goin’ to kill you,” Porthos promised ardently.

Marchand laughed and tossed down another waterskin, barely missing the wounded man’s leg.

Porthos refused to flinch, holding Marchand’s gaze defiantly until the man moved from his line of sight.

“Aramis!” he called, hoping his friend was still within hearing range. “Stay alive! Don’t let me down!”

He shifted his leg, bending the knee tentatively, wincing at the flare of pain it caused. He knew Aramis was more than capable of outsmarting the Baron, leading the man on a merry chase to buy enough time for help to arrive. Unfortunately, help was in short supply, leaving only Porthos to tilt the odds in their favor. He began to slowly work his knee, ignoring the pain. His eyes drifted to the wall of the pit, pinpointing the handholds, calculating the best path for his escape.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Divested of his doublet and boots, Aramis glared as Marchand tossed his pauldron into the dirt with a snort of contempt. Two of the other guards conducted an aggressive but thorough search of his person, the rough treatment causing his shoulder to flare in pain and his many bruises to ache renewed. Search concluded, a dry piece of bread and a flask of warm wine were thrust into his hands and he was ordered to consume them quickly under Marchand’s watchful eye. His first instinct was to defy the command, but the rumble in his belly reminded him they had not eaten since early yesterday and he would need the sustenance if he were to stand a chance against the Baron’s men. Without dropping his gaze from Marchand, he reluctantly did as he was bid. As soon as the last crumb had been devoured, he was roughly pushed back out into the clearing.

He shivered, more from the callous treatment and thought of what was to come than the chill in the morning air, and he remembered the words of encouragement Porthos had called to him s they’d dragged him away from the pit. His eyes moved to the edge of the hole, mind conjuring an image of his friend sitting restless at the bottom, seething at the injustice thrust upon them. The image comforted him and he smiled, knowing he had saved Porthos – for the moment at least – confidant that should he not prevail against the Baron, the larger Musketeer would not yield until he saw him avenged.

The barking of dogs preceded the Baron’s return to the clearing, the man decked out in fine hunting attire, pistols and swords adoring his belt. Colbert followed, unarmed, obviously unhappy at being forced to participate in the Baron’s game. Two other men followed on horseback armed with pistols and muskets, with a trio of hunting dogs and their handlers bringing up the rear.

“Ah, I see our prey has been prepared,” d’Orbec greeted Aramis with a smile. “As a man of honor, I am sure you will uphold your end of the bargain and give us a worthy hunt.”

“How worthy can it be with such an impressive entourage against one unarmed man?” Aramis swallowed his alarm at the myriad of weapons on display and waved a hand toward the men and animals behind the Baron, letting his disdain for the ‘game’ show on his face.

The Baron made a show of turning and regarding his party before sighing and nodding toward the Musketeer. “Point taken,” he reached into his own doublet and pulled out an old, stained dagger, tossing it down to the ground at Aramis’ feet. “There, I believe that evens the odds.”

Aramis leaned over and plucked the dagger from the ground, running the dull edge down his thumb. “This hardly counts as a weapon,” he protested. “I doubt it would cut parchment, let alone skin.”

The Baron chuckled, the sound cold and devoid of any humor. “I’m afraid it’s all I can spare. You don’t expect me to leave my men without the means to protect themselves. After all, from what I’ve heard, the King’s Musketeers are rumored to be the most formidable fighting men in all of France.”

Aramis decided to ignore the barb, tucking the dagger into the waist of his breeches and turning a level state on the Baron.

“A rumor you are about to find true. Am I to get a head start? Or am I to take you all on here and now?”

The Baron laughed. “It would not be much of a challenge if I simply let them kill you where you stand, now would it? I will give you one hour before I set my hounds on your trail. After we are through with you, we will do the same for your friend.”

Aramis bristled at the implied threat to Porthos, knowing he would have to keep the Baron and his men away for as long as possible in order to give his friend an opportunity to escape and find help. If he could take out some of them along the way, all the better, but he would do his best to keep them busy, giving Porthos every chance possible.

“And my friend will remain unharmed until then?”

“You have my word.”

He dipped his head, accepting the Baron’s terms. “Then I will bid you adieu for now.” With a last, reluctant look at the pit, he dashed off into the woods.

TBC


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter 6**

Porthos took another sip of water, his eyes assessing the wall of the pit opposite him. He continued to work his knee, using some of the cool liquid to bathe the joint as Aramis had instructed, feeling the range of movement increase more and more as the swelling receded. Having Aramis’ blue sash wrapped tightly kept the worst of the pain at bay and gave him a tangible connection to his friend. As he continued to massage the flesh just above the knee, he pressed his foot into the dirt, relieved that the sharp pain that had previously accompanied such movement had leveled off into a dull aching throb.

He’d kept silent as the Baron had taunted Aramis, silently praying for his friend as the marksman had taken off into the woods. He hadn’t been able to see him, but he’d felt the weight of his stare anyway, knowing he’d agreed to the Baron’s game in an effort to secure Porthos’ own safety. It was a stupid thing to do, but Porthos could not condemn him for the decision, knowing had their positions had been reversed, Porthos would have done the same. He was determined not to waste his friend’s sacrifice.

Despite his bravado, Porthos knew that Aramis would be counting on him for help, and he had no intention of denying his friend. But first, he had to get out of this damned hole.

With a grunting effort, he used the wall behind him as leverage until he was standing for the first time since they’d been dragged from their horses the previous day. Tentatively, he straightened his wounded leg and shifted slightly, pleased to find it held his weight. Though painful, it was nothing he couldn’t handle; especially knowing Aramis was out there alone, wounded and essentially unarmed, depending on him to do his part.

Footsteps above heralded the return of Marchand, and Porthos moved back against the wall, leaning heavily against the packed dirt, not wanting the guard to see the extent of his progress. Marchand tossed down a piece of crusty bread and Porthos watched in disgust as the food rolled across the loose soil.

“Eat up, Musketeer. You’re going to need your strength when your turn comes.”

“That’s assuming the Baron returns at all,” Porthos taunted, returning the man’s sneer. “I think you’ve underestimated my friend.”

Marchand laughed, not intimidated by the captive Musketeer. “Your friend didn’t look like much. Besides, he’s one wounded man against the Baron and his hounds. I estimate they’ll be back before mid-day – if they haven’t killed him already. Perhaps you can provide a more formidable challenge seeing as how you’re obviously more of an animal than your dandy of a friend.”

Porthos seethed at the insults but held his temper in check, not allowing the guard to see just how much the slurs affected him.

“Aramis is twice the man your Baron is, and I’m goin’ to make you eat those words when I get my hands on you.” He forced his voice to remain level, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed dangerously.

Marchand snorted, unimpressed. “If you get the chance, I suggest you make the most of it. Until then, just know your friend is probably already dead, and you will soon follow.” He spit into the pit before straightening and walking back the way he’d come, his laughter floating down into the hole, serving only to stir the fire already burning in Porthos’ belly.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Running with a head wound – no matter how moderate the damage – was never a good idea, and Aramis found himself panting in exhaustion, hands braced against his thighs as he waited for the gray edges to recede from his vision. He had no idea how long he’d been sprinting through the trees, only knowing he needed to lead the Baron and his men as far from Porthos as possible and keep them away for as long as he could.

Porthos’ knee was a concern, but not an insurmountable one; the big man being resilient and known to ignore his own wellbeing when deemed necessary. Aramis was certain their current situation fell under that category. Knowing Porthos would find a way to overcome the injury and make his way to freedom kept the marksman going despite his own pain, the thought of the big man hunting the Baron even as he lay pursuit to Aramis, lifting his spirits and giving him a reason to continue on his reckless path.

As his vision cleared and the pounding in his head receded, the other aches and pains of his body began to clamor for attention; most notably the soles of his bare feet, which had taken the brunt of the damage caused by his flight through the woods. Without his boots, the tender skin had been subjected to the rough pebbles and twigs that had embedded themselves into the uneven dirt of the forest floor and he lifted them one by one to relieve the new ache that had begun to rival the others.

As he allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, he wondered how Athos and d’Artagnan had enjoyed the second day of the King’s hunt. Ironically he felt a strange sort of kinship with the quail that had given their lives to alleviate their boredom the other day. Did the birds also feel the injustice of being stalked without the necessary means to protect themselves from men prepared to do them harm simply for sport? He had to admit, he’d never stopped to think about it from the prey’s point of view and was hit with a sudden sense of remorse for causing such grievance to another living thing. 

The faint sounds of barking drifted upon the breeze and he swore, realizing the Baron and his men were already on his trail. Had it been an hour? He honestly had no idea, his headlong rush into the woods tainting his ability to process anything but the need to keep moving. Straightening, he glanced around his current location. The trees had become thicker this far into the forest, the ground littered with leaves and other detritus from animals and plants alike. Noting a sharp drop-off to his left, he moved quickly toward the edge, leaning against the rough bark of a towering oak as he took in the tableau. The embankment was steep but passable, large rocks and clumps of small seedlings and vegetation anchoring the earth at various points. There were two obvious paths down to the narrow creek at the bottom of the slope, one twisting and turning, running far to the left before coming back along the edge of the creek, and one much more direct that ran straight down between two clumps of small saplings.

He crouched as he considered his options, allowing one of his braces to slip from his shoulder. As his hand reached automatically to tug it back into place, his eyes studied the more straightforward path, noting how it dipped dangerously right between two sturdy young seedlings. The creek below wasn’t fast moving, but it would serve to throw the Baron’s dogs off his scent for a while, and if he could devise a way to perhaps eliminating one of more of the men accompanying them, all the better. 

His main plan had been to lead the Baron’s party away from Porthos, hoping the big Musketeer would be able to find his way out of the pit and deal with the guards who remained behind. But perhaps he could do more than simply run and lead. The Baron did not expect his prey to fight back. Perhaps it was time to teach the man what messing with a Musketeer truly meant. Aramis’ hand tightened on the firm strap of his brace and he smiled, an idea taking form.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos and d’Artagnan arrived in Brenne around mid-day, pulling their tired mounts to a halt just outside the rundown stables. There was not a soul lingering along the main road, a fact Athos considered quite odd for the time of day. In Piñon, the early afternoon was a busy time, workers moving to and fro between buildings, women hanging laundry, children, finished with their chores, eagerly running about in play before settling down for the evening. He had assumed it would be the same in any small village, but the narrow dirt street and main courtyard of Brenne was deserted, completely devoid of human presence. 

“This isn’t disturbing at all,” d’Artagnan muttered sarcastically. A glance at the Gascon, his reins held tight in his fist, his eyes darting around the quiet town, showed Athos he wasn’t alone in his opinion.

“Indeed,” Athos agreed. He nodded toward the small building across the square that looked to be the town tavern. If Aramis and Porthos had made it this far, he was certain it was where they would’ve started their inquiries. “Perhaps we shall find some information there.”

D’Artagnan grunted in doubt. “Or at least some wine and food.” He shrugged and looked around the quiet village. “If Aramis and Porthos were here, they’d have certainly been noticed.”

As they secured their horses to a post just outside the stable and made their way across the square, Athos caught the fluttering of shadows in a doorway and felt eyes following them from inside the buildings. So the town was not deserted after all, simply wary of strangers. Being obligated to a man such as Jean du Merle for their day-to-day existence would make anyone fear authority, and Athos was well aware the pauldron on his shoulder was a symbol of the highest level of authority within France. The fact that the people of the village were reticent to welcome them lent credibility to his initial fears for his friends concerning the questionable hospitality of the Baron d’Orbec.

Silence welcomed them as they stepped into the dimly lit tavern. Save for the tall, thin man across the narrow room, there was nobody else visible inside. The two Musketeers exchanged a look of resignation before crossing the wooden floor, stopping before the quite noticeably nervous man.

“Are you the proprietor?” Athos asked with little inflection. He did not want to alarm the man any more than he already was, but the concern he still harbored for his friends afforded him little time to waste with formalities.

“I am,” the man replied cautiously. His eyes darted to the pauldron on Athos’ shoulder before returning to meet the Musketeer’s. “May I offer you some refreshment before you continue on your journey?”

D’Artagnan stepped forward, a curious look focused on the innkeeper. “Perhaps this is our final destination.”

The man scoffed, waving a hand toward the door. “You have seen the state of this village. I can think of no business the King’s Musketeers would have in Brenne.”

“Is that what you said to the others?”

The man looked stricken for a moment before quickly schooling his face once again. “Monsieur?”

Athos sighed and lowered his head, removing his hat before leveling his gaze at the proprietor once again. “I am Athos and this is d’Artagnan. We mean you no harm. We are merely in search of two of our comrades who set out for this village three days ago. Were they here?”

The proprietor swallowed hard, shifting his eyes from one Musketeer to the other before finally glancing down to the floor, nodding slowly. “They were here, stayed the night upstairs.” He quickly looked up, his hesitant expression replaced by an earnest air. “But I have not seen them since they left to inquire of the Baron d’Orbec.”

Athos took a deep breath, letting it out through his nose slowly. “So they did visit the Baron.” The statement was not directed to anyone particular, but the innkeeper responded nonetheless.

“It was their intention, yes. But…”

“But?” d’Artagnan prompted when the man hesitated.

After a moment of obvious consideration, the man sighed, his shoulders slumping as he shook his head. “I am sorry. But men who call on the Baron are seldom seen again.” He looked up, regret in his eyes. “There have been many men, strangers and friends alike, who have gone to the Baron’s estate since the son took title – some by choice, others by force – but most never return.”

“Has anyone reported this to the proper authorities?”

The man shook his head, his laugh a small, sad thing. “Brenne is on d’Orbec lands. The Baron is the only authority recognized here. What recourse do we have?”

“Is this why the village seems deserted?” 

The keeper nodded in response to d’Artagnan’s inquiry. “We do not want to cause trouble for strangers passing through,” he explained. “Nor do we relish the need for our… discourtesy… but we know if we welcome strangers, if anyone stays, the Baron will be informed.”

“So you forego hospitality in favor of prudence.” Athos concluded.

“It is all we can do.”

The Musketeer nodded, reading the shame on the man’s face and knowing how hard it must be for the villagers who were under Jean du Merle’s rule. He could not find it in him to condemn the people of Brenne for circumstances not of their making. If there were a way to act with honor in these conditions, it would be to assure visitors did not linger long enough to be exposed to the Baron’s scrutiny – even if the action brought disgrace upon themselves. 

“If it would be no trouble, we would appreciate some food and wine.”

Surprised the two Musketeers were not disgruntled enough to immediately leave, the keeper agreed, hustling through a door behind him to comply.

“We’re still going to the Baron’s estate, I assume?” d’Artagnan asked as they sat at a small table near the wall.

“Since that was Aramis and Porthos’ intent, I can see no reason not to follow.”

“Do you think the Baron will remember you?”

Athos sighed and dropped his hat onto the table, running a hand through his hair. When he raised his eyes to d’Artagnan, they were filled with antipathy. “I am certain of it.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Jean du Merle was not a patient man. When his father had taken ill over a year ago, he had been forced to wait for the old man to finally breathe his last until he was free of the constrictions that had been placed upon him throughout his life. Once the title and lands were lawfully his, he’d been able to act freely upon his whims, knowing there would no longer be censure from his father, nor a need to disguise his most base desires.

He had been well aware of his father’s disapproval at his choice of amusement and had gone to great lengths to conceal most of his entertainment from the old man, buying the discretion of some of the guards, intimidating others, and being careful to use only quarry that would not be missed. But the challenge had been less than satisfying and he’d found himself thrilled when his father had become bedridden, no longer able to oversee the affairs of the estate, leaving him full authority over the lands and the disgusting rabble who dwelled upon it.

At first, the villagers had balked at his new taxes and laws, accustomed to his father’s generosity and benevolence, but fortunately, Jean was not afflicted with such weaknesses. The peasants soon realized their easy lives on the lands of d’Orbec were no more and they had rebelled. A pathetic attempt to test his fortitude by withholding goods and coin had resulted in imprisonment of a few of the loudest protesters, quickly silencing the dissent and making them all yield to his control.

He had, he believed, been more munificent than they deserved, giving each man a choice between hard labor and the opportunity to participate in his game. To his delight, most had chosen to play, foolishly believing they were strong enough or clever enough to come out of it victoriously. Unfortunately they had been mere peasants, easily subdued, none of them providing him with the challenge he craved. There had been a few strangers who had passed through Brenne that he had been able to pluck from the road, most unknown to the villagers, their disappearances unreported and forever undiscovered. But without sufficient stimulation, he’d grown bored of the game, desperately desiring something to give him the thrill he’d once known.

“How much longer must we delay?”

He turned to find Colbert standing behind him, eyes cast down to the bottom of the ravine where one of his guards was assessing the man who had fallen down the steep, rocky incline to the narrow creek below. He leveled his gaze at the shorter man, making a prodigious effort not to reach out and give him a shove, sending him tumbling down for his own amusement.

“As soon as we know whether the man and horse are capable of continuing, the hunt will resume.”

The hunt. He had been looking forward to it ever since Colbert, in a moment of panic at being sent back to Paris, had suggested it.

When his father’s old acquaintance had arrived unannounced, Jean had felt a slight stirring of intrigue. The rumors of the theft of the King’s gold had reached far and wide, and when Colbert had arrived, du Merle had thought it a fortuitous opportunity for him to make an impression on Louis’ court. Not that he held high regard for the King, but basking in Louis’ favor would, for a time, alleviate the boredom that had begun to pervade his existence. 

He had not believed a man such as Colbert capable of conceiving let alone succeeding in such a plot, and at first the man had denied the allegations. But when he learned the Baron had sent word to Paris, he quickly changed his tune, offering to share the gold with du Merle if he would provide sanctuary until he could secure transport out of France. Du Merle had agreed eagerly, intrigued at the respect and power such a vast amount of gold could buy.

The dilemma of what to do if Louis sent someone to investigate his claims was easily remedied by Colbert’s assertion that the King would most likely send a Musketeer – a most intriguing prey to hunt. How the man had known of his proclivities was of concern, but the Baron, feeling a thrill he’d not felt for so long at the proposal, had readily agreed. 

Unfortunately, the Musketeer was proving to be more of a challenge than expected. Perhaps hunting the wretched peasants of Brenne had degraded his skills; he was finding the Musketeer annoyingly persistent in his evasion. The hounds had picked up his trail at the edge of the woods, and Jean had been eager to hunt his prey, proving his superior skills to that of one of Louis’ elite soldiers. But the Musketeer had managed to stay ahead of them despite his wounds and lack of weaponry or protective attire.

It was becoming quite frustrating.

More maddening was the idea that the man had begun to fight back. As du Merle watched the scene below, he felt his anger rise. He had never been one to tolerate insubordination, and this Musketeer, having the audacity to set a trap – though a rudimentary one – had managed to inflict damage. 

The hunting party had tracked their quarry to the edge of the steep incline, sparsely littered with small saplings and rocks. Taking the most direct path, the lead horse had suddenly stumbled and, unable to regain its footing, tumbled down the slope, crashing violently to the slow moving water below. 

The horse, a fine animal, had broken its leg in the fall, and du Merle had reluctantly ordered for it to be put out of its misery. As for the man… his carelessness had cost the Baron a valuable commodity – not to mention the delay -- and he was half a mind to allow him to meet the same fate as his unfortunate mount.

The guard rose, patting his comrade on the shoulder and made his way back up the incline to report.

“I’m afraid Gaston is unable to continue, My Lord. His leg is broken in two places and I fear there is damage to his back as well.”

The Baron sighed, annoyed. “Then there is nothing to be done for him. We will continue on and send someone back for him when we return to the chateau.”

The guard shifted uncomfortably. “He will probably not survive long out here alone.”

“Then he shall not have much time to reflect upon his disgrace,” the Baron sniffed, dismissing the incident with a wave of a hand. “Have the hounds recovered the scent?”

The guard dipped his head in response. “Yes, My Lord.” He pointed down the hill to the stream. “They tracked the Musketeer to the bottom of the ravine. We found blood on some rocks just at the water’s edge along with a partial footprint. We believe he is moving upstream, using the water to mask his trail.”

The Baron smiled, pleased. “Then we will resume the hunt at once. Lead the horses down the other path and be careful, Gontard. I can ill afford to lose another animal.”

As the guard left to comply, Colbert turned to face the Baron, his face a mask of misery. “Perhaps we should send the guards to find him and bring him back to the clearing,” he suggested. He glanced around the forest, eyeing the trees and mud distastefully. “This place is not safe. And the Musketeer is dangerous. Perhaps it would be better if --.”

Du Merle interrupted with a laugh, slapping a hand on the smaller man’s back, causing him to lose his balance and teeter over the edge. “Do not fret, Monsieur,” he said grabbing hold of Colbert’s arm to steady him. “It is merely a matter of time. Our quarry may be wily, but he is only one man. These are my woods, my land, and I will prevail.”

“Of that there is no doubt,” Colbert replied, diplomatically. “But you do not know these men as I do, My Lord. They are not to be taken lightly.”

Du Merle sighed, his eyes flashing, his smile hardening. “It was you who suggested this hunt, Colbert. Was it not?”

The former minister nodded, subdued. 

The Baron’s expression relaxed, but his eyes lost none of their fire. “Then let us not speak of failure. This Musketeer had cost me a fine horse. I will see him pay for it with his life.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis froze as the sound of the gunshot echoed in the distance. He knew the shot had been too far away for it to have been aimed at him, coming from far behind, muffled by the twists and turns the small creek had taken. Either the Baron and his men were shooting at something – or someone – else, or one of them had fallen victim to his trap. 

The braces wrapped around the base of the saplings had been hidden well by the leaves he’d strewn across the path, one misstep and a man or horse would trip and tumble down the embankment, crashing over rocks and debris until they hit bottom. The single gunshot led him to believe it had been one of the horses that had been injured and he silently asked forgiveness for being the source of its misfortune. But one less horse hopefully meant one less huntsman on his trail, an outcome he was more than content with.

As the sound drifted off in the breeze, he raised his wadded up shirt from the cool water, wringing it out and using it to cool the overheated skin on his neck and chest. He was still experiencing bouts of dizziness from the earlier head injury, and his shoulder and feet throbbed in beat with his racing heart, but he was still able to move, pleased at the distance he’d created between himself and his pursuers, knowing he was leading them further and further from Porthos. He had no plan other than to keep them moving, praying they didn’t grow weary of the chase and give up, returning to the pit for an easier kill. 

Though the fear of the Baron killing Porthos outright without giving him a chance to defend himself was a constant fear, he believed the man too arrogant to admit defeat at the hands of a lowly Musketeer. He’d bet his life the Baron would not give up without seeing Aramis dead or defeated, even forcing his party to continue into the night in order to stay on his trail.

He looked up through the dense foliage, trying to gage how much daylight remained. It was mid-afternoon, giving him at least three more hours before it would become impossible to pick his way through the trees and he would be forced to find refuge for the night. He had considered moving off deeper into the forest, but determined he was better off staying near the stream, keeping the constant source of water at hand. Slowly he stood from his crouch and pulled the wet shirt over his head, shivering as the cold material clung to his torso. He would keep his eyes open for a suitable place to bed down for the night. Someplace hidden yet defensible that he could get some much needed rest. 

Running a hand through his disheveled curls, he set off once again, picking his way across the smooth stones of the creek, careful to leave only a footprint here and there along the soft dirt of the bank to keep his pursuers on his trail.

TBC


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter 7

Porthos grunted as his foot slipped for the third time, forcing most of his weight onto his arms and wounded knee. Fumbling for purchase, he finally found an indent in the wall and hauled himself up a bit more, reaching for a new handhold without delay. He was almost to the top of the pit, striving to remain quiet so as not to draw attention to his escape. 

When the shadows had begun to overtake the small pit, he knew he had no more time to wait. Aramis was out there alone – wounded and exhausted – and despite the pain in his knee, Porthos could no longer force himself to delay. The joint still ached, sharp pains running up and down his leg whenever he put too much pressure on it, but it was holding and that was all he needed for now. 

As his hand found the edge of the hole, he breathed a sigh of relief, swallowing hard and leaning his forehead against the cool dirt of the wall. He stilled, listening, just able to make out the muffled sounds of laughter coming from the distance. Apparently the men left to guard him didn’t see him as a threat, their laughter relaxed and raucous as if they had not a care in the world.

Finding another accommodating foothold, he was able to raise his head above the pit and take in his surroundings for the first time. The clearing was small, trees crowding on every side. A small shack sat on the far side, directly ahead, the voices of the guards emanating from within. With a grunting effort, he pulled himself over the edge, leaning on his hands, giving himself a moment of respite from his efforts.

Wiping the sweat from his face, he glanced around, noting there was nobody stationed outside the shack. Whether it be by design or carelessness was not his concern, he simply thanked the heavens his captors had thought him secure and not deemed it necessary to watch him with due diligence. With graceful silence belaying a man of his size, Porthos crossed the clearing and plastered himself against the wall of the shack just to the side of the door. He ignored the tremors in his leg, willing it to hold, knowing he could not allow weakness to hamper his attack. He had no weapon other than the element of surprise, and hoped it would be enough to overcome at least one of the guards before the others could find their wits and move to defend themselves.

“Someone should check on the curr,” a voice he recognized as Marchand slurred from beyond the closed door.

From the responses, he determined there were only two other men inside, the sloppiness of their words and the scent of ale making him smile. The Baron should be more careful choosing those he held in his employ – especially if he meant to deal with Musketeers.

“I’ll go,” another voice grunted. “I need to take a piss anyway. I’m sure our guest would appreciate the drink.”

The burst of laughter was followed by the sound of shuffling footsteps and Porthos pressed himself back against the wood, tensing in readiness as the door began to open.

“What the –“

The guard didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence as Porthos grabbed his arm and swung him around face first into the side of the shack. The rickety structure shook at the impact but held, surprising the Musketeer with its fortitude. As the guard’s cry of shock was suddenly cut off by the collision, Porthos heard chairs crash to the ground as the other two rushed to investigate what had befallen their comrade.

The next man out the door was Marchand, and Porthos took great pleasure in meeting him with a swift fist to the face. The man dropped, his nose gushing blood, his sword falling to the dirt as he raised both hands to his face. Without hesitating, Porthos stepped back and kicked out, catching Marchand in the chest, knocking him back onto the ground. He reached down and grabbed hold of Marchand’s sword before turning to confront the third guard who had frozen in the frame of the doorway. 

“Don’t just stand there, you idiot!” Marchand screamed, his voice muffled due to the hand pressed against his broken nose. “Kill him!”

The guard fumbled for his own sword, but Porthos, angry, in pain and completely fed up with the situation, rushed forward, raising his sword and bringing the basket down on the man’s head with a forceful growl. The guard’s eyes rolled back into his head and he dropped to the ground in a heap.

He didn’t know if it was instinct or exhaustion that made him move, but Porthos shifted to lean against the shack, narrowly avoiding the dagger that flew past his head, embedding itself into the open door. He looked up as Marchand let out a howl and lunged from his knees, only to meet the point of his own sword as it embedded itself into his chest.

Marchand let out a gurgle as he fell, his eyes wide, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth to join the dark liquid still flowing from his nose. Porthos released the weapon, watching with satisfaction as Marchand toppled to the ground, his final breath hissing from his lungs.

Breathing heavily, the Musketeer took a moment to let the rush of the battle drain from his limbs. Turning, he stepped over the unconscious guard in the doorway and let his eyes scan the small room. He was pleased to find their weapons stacked in the far corner and moved toward them, stopping when he noticed Aramis’ doublet, boots and pauldron tossed carelessly nearby. His lip curled in anger at the thought of his friend out in the woods with little protection from the elements and rocky terrain, renewing his need to find the marksman before the Baron could do more harm.

He buckled his own belt in place, securing some of Aramis’ weapons underneath. He laid the doublet on the ground and placed the rest of his friend’s possessions inside, using the flaps and sleeves to tie it securely into a tight bundle. Wedging Aramis’ sheathed sword through the gaps, he hefted the pack over his shoulder and stepped outside, noticing Aramis’ ornate pistol still hanging from Marchand’s belt. With little concern for the man’s dignity, he kicked him over and retrieved the pistol, placing it in his own belt with a grunt of satisfaction. He swiftly bound the two remaining guards with the rope they had used to haul Aramis up and left them leaning against the outside of the shack. He knew there was a chance a bear or wolf could happen upon them before they were found or able to free themselves, but after all they’d been through, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. With the leather bound pack over his shoulder, he set out into the woods, eager to find his friend and put an end to the Baron’s sick game.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm

The stew and biscuits were good, but the two Musketeers took no pleasure in the meal, hastily forcing it down, eager to resume their search for their friends. Thanking the tavern keep and asking no more questions, they headed back out to the town square, turning toward the stable where they had left their mounts. As they approached the horses, d’Artagnan slowed, noticing a young boy standing near the head of Athos’ horse, stroking his nose and speaking to him softly. 

Roger, for his part, seemed at ease, and d’Artagnan exchanged a curious look with Athos as they made their way across the square.

Roger tossed his head at the approach of his master and the boy turned toward them, the excitement on his face dimming instantly when his eyes met theirs as if expecting someone else. He dropped his head, stepping away from the horse and made for the door of the stable.

“A moment!” d’Artagnan called, hurrying the last few paces to the hitching post. The boy turned back, but didn’t respond, his wide eyes tracking from the pauldron on the young Musketeer’s shoulder back to his face. D’Artagnan kneeled down, bringing him eye level with the lad. “You have an interest in horses?”

The boy nodded, his eyes moving back toward the fine black gelding. “I meant no harm, Monsieur. I was only hoping…” His voice trailed off as he shrugged, returning his gaze back to the ground, disheartened. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does,” d’Artagnan smiled, thankful that Athos had chosen to remain at a distance, leaving him to deal with the boy. While the former comte was not outright rude, his severe demeanor tended to intimidate those unaccustomed to dealing with men born of higher station. “My name is d’Artagnan.” He motioned to his silent comrade. “And this is Athos.” He dipped his head at the boy in an attempt to catch his eyes. “What is your name?”

“David de la Pailleterie.,” he said with a stiff bow.

D’Artagnan raised a brow at the formal introduction. “Well, David, if I am not mistaken, you looked as if you were expecting someone other than Athos and myself.” He raised his voice at the end, forming a question, tilting his head toward the horse. “You’ve seen horses like these before?”

David nodded in response, watching them, obviously uncertain of what to expect.

“Did you see two other men like us?” Athos stepped forward. “One with dark skin, the other a flamboyant hat with a feather?”

David nodded again. “Porthos and Aramis. I took them to the Baron’s estate.”

“Would you be willing to take us?”

The boy hesitated, considering their request, finally taking a deep breath and nodding his assent.

“But I will tell you what I told them.” He reached out as d’Artagnan stood, grabbing on to the young man’s arm. “The Baron… he is not a kind man. I’m afraid your friends… I hoped they had returned safe, but…”

“It’s all right,” d’Artagnan placed both hands on the boys shoulder to calm his trepidation, leaning down and giving him an encouraging smile. “We know what to expect from the Baron –“

“No!” David interrupted, shaking his head adamantly and taking a step back. “You don’t understand! The Baron, he is –“

“He is ruthless and manipulative,” Athos broke in, his voice even despite the harsh words. “I assure you, the Baron’s true nature is of no mystery to us.”

David was suddenly wary. “Then you know of his game?”

Athos frowned. “His game?” He looked to d’Artagnan who could only shrug in confusion. “What game?”

David swallowed, taking a deep breath before explaining. “He takes people, hunts them. I’ve seen it.” At the expressions of disgust and outrage on the Musketeers faces he rushed to continue. “Many men who have challenged or displeased the Baron have been taken from the village. He says they are imprisoned, or set to hard labor, but it’s a lie. He forces them to run and hunts them down like animals.”

“And you’ve seen this?” d’Artagnan asked slowly, wanting the boy to be honest.

David nodded earnestly. “I tried to warn your friends. I tried to make them turn back, but they didn’t understand. Please, when they did not return, I knew they had been taken. I’m afraid the Baron will kill them!”

“Calm down, David,” d’Artagnan soothed. “Aramis and Porthos are more than capable of taking care of themselves.”

“But the Baron has many men, bad men, who enjoy hurting people.”

D’Artagnan could see the boy was truly upset, worried for their friends. Pulling the lad to him, he turned to Athos, knowing the older man would know exactly what they should do next.

“We will inquire at the Baron’s estate,” the swordsman decided. “If we do not find Aramis and Porthos there, we must assume the worst and confront du Merle.” 

He raised his brows in silent question, and d’Artagnan nodded in return, knowing Athos would take it as his accord to do whatever necessary to find their friends and bring them back alive.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“Why would the Baron lie about Colbert?” d’Artagnan wondered out loud as they made their way toward the Baron’s estate. 

David, who was perched on the front of the young man’s horse much as he had been on Porthos’ days before, turned to respond. “He didn’t lie. The man your friends were looking for is there, at the Baron’s chateau.”

“Then perhaps Aramis and Porthos have already left for Paris?”

Athos shook his head. “I doubt it. Colbert knew we would come for him. Word of his crime has spread and he would not be able to rest until he could find safe passage from the country.”

“That wouldn’t be easy with everyone still searching for him,” d’Artagnan nodded in understanding.

“So he would need a place he could hide until the search leveled off,” Athos continued. “If I’m not mistaken, Colbert knew du Merle’s father. Perhaps he sought sanctuary here, assuming he would be able to use that relationship to convince du Merle to help him.”

“Or he offered him some of the gold.”

Athos snorted in agreement. “Knowing du Merle, that is a more likely scenario.”

D’Artagnan connected the pieces of the puzzle. “So the Baron sent word to Paris before Colbert made his offer?”

Athos shrugged. “Perhaps, but his motives are not of consequence. If what our young friend has said is true, Aramis and Porthos were walking into a situation they were unprepared for. They would not have been expecting a threat from a man they had told would assist them. If they have been captured and du Merle intends to use them for his game, it is most likely he has agreed to protect Colbert and aid him in his escape from France. Neither crime can go unpunished.”

“Am I to be punished, too?”

d’Artagnan leaned sideways, trying to catch a glimpse of David’s face.

“Why would you think that?” he asked, perplexed. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

David dropped his head, refusing to meet d’Artagnan’s eyes. “I knew what the Baron would do, but I led them there anyway. I should have made them understand, but I was afraid.” It obviously cost the boy a great deal to admit his guilt, his voice trembling as he made his confession.

“Aramis and Porthos would have done their duty no matter how hard you tried to dissuade them,” the younger Musketeer assured the boy. “They are both cunning and experienced soldiers. If the Baron has taken them for his game, I promise you, he will regret it.”

David twisted, eyes filled with hope as he looked from one Musketeer to the other. Athos nodded, answering the boy’s unasked question, even as d’Artagnan gave him a firm nod, silently praying his words proved true.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The forest ground was soft yet strewn with small rocks and debris, and Porthos grasped tighter to the bundle over his shoulder, imagining what those sharp pebbles would do to his friend’s unprotected feet. The trail left by the Baron’s party was not difficult to follow, the horses and hounds leaving clear prints, even as they moved deeper into the trees. He didn’t bother searching for sign of Aramis, knowing the marksman was too experienced to leave tracks, too clever to make it so easy for his pursuers. Even if he had, due to haste or to purposely lead the Baron deeper into the trees, the hunting party would have most likely obscured it. So following the Baron’s trail was the only recourse left him and Porthos was grateful for the Baron’s ignorance.

Though mostly obscured by the thick foliage above, the sunlight filtered down through the leaves, casting enough illumination to see, but giving off little warmth. The burden of the pack he carried over his shoulder grew heavier as he thought of Aramis without his doublet as well as his boots and weapons. Though his swift movement would generate plenty of heat to keep him warm, Porthos knew it was imperative to find his friend before darkness fell, lest he succumb to the elements or was crippled by pain, exhaustion or predators that prowled the night.

A rustle to his left stopped him in his tracks and he turned his head, listening intently. The sound came again and he moved slowly forward, coming upon a ledge overlooking a steep incline. At the bottom of the rise lay a horse, still saddled but unmoving, the dried blood on its forehead illustrating its fate. 

The rustling sound came again and Porthos’ gaze shifted to a spot a few paces to the left of the animal, about halfway down the incline. A man – not one he recognized, but surely one of the Baron’s guards – lay twisted amongst the rocks, his leg obviously broken, his face a mask of pain as he shifted laboriously. Porthos’ lip rose in disgust, realizing the Baron has left this man for dead in order to continue his hunt.

He lowered Aramis’ possessions from his shoulder and started down the path toward the wounded man. He swiftly grabbed onto a small but sturdy sapling when his foot caught on something, tripping him and nearly sending him tumbling down on top of the guard. Looking down, he grinned, a low laugh rising from his belly. Wrapped around the tree, across the path and secured to another seedling were Aramis’ braces – one of the few things the Baron hadn’t thought to strip from him when he’d been forced to run.

Carefully, he stepped over the trap, making his way down the slope, coming to a crouch beside the wounded guard. The man was still alive – though just barely – the bone of his leg protruding, a wide pool of blood already saturating the rocky ground. Though the Musketeer hated to see anyone suffer, there was little he could do for him save show him the same mercy that had been shown the horse. He could not forget that this man’s intention had been to hunt down and murder his brother, and though he had been abandoned by those he called comrades; left to die alone, Porthos could not find it in himself to mourn this loss of life. The man had made his choices and death would be a fitting punishment for his transgressions. 

Porthos’ smile was still in place when the man opened his eyes, though it had taken on a slightly more cheerless tone.

“Looks as if you found a bit of trouble,” he commented casually, nodding toward the guard’s shattered leg. “I could’ve warned you my friend wasn’t one to be trifled with, but somehow I don’t think you would’ve listened.”

“Your friend is most likely already dead,” the guard hissed, unrepentant even in the face of his own demise. “And you should join him.”

The guard shifted, pulling a dagger out from under his back, lunging up at the Musketeer with his failing strength. Porthos easily dodged the blade, grabbing hold of the man’s arm and roughly yanking the weapon from his grasp. The guard cried out in pain as his body shifted, his eyes going wide as he slumped to the ground, blood pulsing from his wound. He gasped once before his muscles relaxed and his head turned, eyes focused on whatever lay beyond this world.

Porthos sighed, running a hand over his face. Death was an inevitable part of the life of a soldier, but he could never be glad of it – even when it was deserved.

Sliding the dagger into his belt, he pushed himself up and retrieved the bundle containing Aramis’ things. It was easy to see the hunting party had continued upstream, leaving the banks of the small stream that trickled along the bottom of the ravine ravaged. Settling the pack against his shoulder, he took a deep breath and moved on.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

David and the Musketeers were met with reserved courtesy at the chateau, the man admitting them seeming nervous and twitchy the moment he noted the pauldrons on their shoulders. He introduced himself as Villiers, the Baron’s valet and informed them the Baron was not in residence and he did not know when to expect him. Undeterred, the Musketeers informed him they would await the Baron’s return – much to the valet’s disappointment. Villiers reluctantly led them to a parlor, offering refreshments to quench their thirst. The Musketeers agreed, thanking him, then settled into the uncomfortable looking chairs to wait.

It was only moments before a plump woman of middle age appeared carrying a tray, followed closely by the valet. She set the tray down before turning and paused, noticing David standing behind the chair d’Artagnan had perched upon.

“David!” she exclaimed, a maternal smile appearing on her face. “What on earth are you doing here? How is your mum? Is she well?” She moved closer, arms outstretched in invitation.

David ran to her, throwing his arms around her in a warm hug.

“Mama is well, Tante,” the boy replied, his voice muffled in her apron. “She looks forward to your next visit.”

The two Musketeers stood, intrigued at the display of affection to their young charge. The woman looked to them as David released her, stepping to her side and smiling hesitantly toward the soldiers. 

“This is Athos and d’Artagnan of the King’s Musketeers,” David announced, the awe with which he regarded them apparent in his voice. “They are here searching for the two Musketeers who called upon the Baron two days ago.” He looked up at his aunt, his eyes wide with hope. “Were they here?”

The woman nodded, sadly. “Aye, Neveu. They were.” She shifted her gaze to the two men, her lips set in a grim line. “Your friends spoke with the Baron about his guest, Monsieur Colbert –“

“Mariette!” Villiers interrupted sharply. He moved forward quickly, tugging David from his aunt and pushing her toward the door. “You will respect the Baron’s privacy.”

“Is the Baron’s privacy of greater value than the King’s orders?”

At Athos inquiry, both servants froze in their tracks, slowly turning back to the reserved Musketeer.

“Our comrades were here at His Majesty’s bidding,” the swordsman continued, his voice low, calm despite the seriousness of his threat. “To interfere with an agent of the crown would be considered treason.” He stepped forward, hat in hand, his expression composed save for the fire in his eyes. “If you have information concerning our friends, it is your duty to reveal it.”

Villiers returned his stare for a moment before dropping his eyes, unable to deny the tacit accusation. 

Mariette moved first, placing a hand on the valet’s arm, watching him with soft compassion. “Please, Anton. This has gone on far too long.”

Villiers nodded, patting her hand and returned her pleading look with one of resolution. “You are right.” He agreed with a sad smile. He raised his head and confronted the two Musketeers. “I’m afraid your friends are in great danger. The Baron… the man is not someone who should be taken lightly.”

“He’s cruel,” Mariette continued. “I have worked for the family all my life, my mother before me. The Baron’s grandfather – the original Baron whom King Henry bestowed the title upon – he was a good man, as was his son. But the grandson…” she shuddered. “I have seen such terrible things.” She returned her gaze to Athos. “Your friends were here. They questioned the Baron about Monsieur Colbert but he denied harboring the man. I heard him send Marchand and the guards out after them.” She paused, looking to Villiers who nodded for her to go on. “The Baron takes people. He calls it a game, but it is nothing more than a guise for killing.” 

She lifted a hand to her mouth, tears filling her eyes as she shifted her gaze to David. “My sister’s husband… he refused to yield to the Baron’s demands…” She broke off, too upset to continue, but the Musketeers understood what had likely happened to David’s father. One look at the grief on the boy’s face confirmed their suspicions.

Villiers sighed. “He hunts them through the forest. He has killed many men in such a fashion. He returned earlier this morning for his hunting attire. I am quite sure one or both of your friends were his intended victims.”

Athos exchanged a knowing look with d’Artagnan, dismayed to have David’s story confirmed.

“The estate is surrounded by forest,” d’Artagnan observed. “How will we know where to search?”

“There is a small shack in a clearing about half a lieu from the main gate,” Villiers offered hopefully. “It used to house the Baron’s hounds since the old Baron could not tolerate the animals’ howling throughout the night. I know it is used to store weapons and supplies now. I believe it is as good a place as any to begin.”

“I know of it,” David piped up. “I can take you there.”

D’Artagnan raised his brows, looking to Athos for a decision. If Aramis and Porthos had been taken to this shack, there would be armed men about. It would be dangerous for the boy, too easy for him to be caught up in a fight and hurt.

“Please,” David beseeched them. “I want to help. Your friends were kind to me. I can’t let anything happen to them.”

“You will do exactly as we say,” Athos warned, nodding his assent. “Aramis and Porthos would never forgive us if anything were to happen to you.”

David nodded enthusiastically even as Athos shook his head, wondering if they were perhaps already too late.

TBC


	8. Chapter Eight

**Chapter 8**

Aramis squinted up through the dense leaves, noting the sun was no longer directly above, the shadows of the trees growing longer as the day waned. He paused, hands on his thighs; tired, hungry, his entire body a cacophony of pain and abuse, the pounding in his head leading the charge, his shoulder and soles of his feet answering in tight rhythm. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing heavily through his nose, trying to ignore the gray spots that had begun to cloud his vision.

He knew he needed to rest. Despite there still being a few hours left of daylight, his body would not be able to endure much more. He was exhausted. He dropped to his knees on the edge of the stream and brought a handful of the cool water to his lips, thankful he had listened to his inner voice and stayed near the stream. Cupping both hands, he raised them and sighed as the liquid blissfully trailed down his head, neck and shoulders, tempering the heat that had risen from his exertion before bringing another handful to his mouth. Once he’d sated his thirst, he leaned back on his heels, eyeing the path ahead.

About twenty paces from where he sat, the trees gave way to a towering wall of rock on one side, and he craned his neck to the side to observe the slope of the stones. Crevices sliced through most of the huge boulders that made up the wall, creating a relatively easy climb up and out of the ravine. Though he was leery of leaving the comfort of the stream, he knew he could not continue this path once the sun had woven its way across the sky. The increasing cloud cover would obscure the faint light of the moon, making the footing treacherous and leaving him defenseless against nature’s nocturnal predators.

He couldn’t imagine the Baron continuing the hunt once darkness blanketed the forest, though ordering his men and dogs to remain on his trail would not be out of the question. Still, he would be safer on higher ground, able to see and hear anyone or anything that might sneak up on him if he were to concede to his body’s persistent warnings and allow himself a moment of rest.

Decision made, Aramis forced himself to his feet and trudged to the lower boulders. He placed the dull blade of the Baron’s dagger in his mouth and reached up, his eyes tracing the most promising course over and around the giant rocks. It was slow going, his wet feet slipping many times against the rough stone. He knew it was more than water creating the treacherous footing. The bottoms of his feet had been bleeding for some time, the cool water he’d continued to wade through masking the severity of the damage the rocks and detritus had inflicted. He was probably leaving a trail of blood up the wall, but it could not be helped. With any luck, it would be too dark for anyone to see it by the time his pursuers caught up to his position. The dogs would surely be able to detect it, alerting the hunters to his path, but the hounds would not be able to scale the wall and without the light of day, the Baron’s men would be foolish to pursue.

As he slowly ascended, he noticed a well-hidden alcove at the top of the wall, recessed back into the ground, the stone and dirt forming a natural shelf above, boulders jutting out along the sides. It would be a good place to rest, protected from the elements as well as prying eyes. If he could make it to the top and wedge himself into the back, he may be able to find a moment to regroup, relax, allowing his body a much-needed respite.

A small boulder gave way as he pushed a foot against it, causing an avalanche of rocks to cascade down into the ravine. Plastering himself against one of the larger stones, he tightened his grip on the edge until his foot found purchase. He laid his sweaty forehead against the rough surface of the rock, his heart hammering in his chest as the stones splashed into the stream below. When he lifted his head, he chanced a look down, noting the large pile of stones that now diverted the stream, forcing it to change its flow. He allowed himself a smile, realizing he was not without a means of defense after all – if the rocks could force the water into a new path, perhaps they could have the same effect on the Baron’s hounds.

As if the mere thought of the animals had miraculously summoned them, Aramis heard the braying of the dogs in the distance. How they had caught up to him so quickly he had no idea, but he forced himself to remain calm, working to move as swiftly as possible, his eyes never straying from the small alcove near the top of the wall. As he neared the ledge, he heard the snarl of the hounds as they bounded from the trees, jumping and scratching at the rocks below.

Hauling himself up and over the last boulder, he scrambled back, pushing his foot against a small pile of rocks, sending them over the side as he scuttled back on his butt. The cry of pain from one of the hounds below was rewarding, but the satisfaction was soon tempered by the sound of horses approaching. 

A quick look around the boulder to his left confirmed his fear.

They had found him.

A shot ricocheted off the boulder and he ducked back into the alcove, breathing heavily, clutching the dagger to his chest. It wasn’t sharp enough to throw and would probably do little damage if wielded at close range, but it was all he had and he clung to it like a lifeline.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Musketeer!” the Baron’s voice boomed from below. “I applaud your attempt. You led us on a merry chase, but the outcome was always inevitable.”

Aramis swallowed hard, letting his head fall back against the rough rock behind him. As much as he wanted to trade clever barbs with the Baron, he was simply too exhausted to think of one, and he couldn’t argue the man’s point. He fervently hoped Porthos had managed to make good his escape. It was the only thing that would make all he had endured worthwhile. Of course, he would probably never know whether or not his friend had managed to free himself, but he would have to be content with knowing he had done all he could to give him the chance.

“There is something you should know, Baron,” Aramis called out, his voice scratchy and not nearly as confident as he’d hoped. “Musketeers don’t die easily.”

“But they do die,” came the arrogant retort. “As you will soon prove.”

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and tensed as another shot rang out, expecting the ping of the ball to hit somewhere near him. Instead, another cry of pain from below rent the air – human this time – followed immediately by the surprised shouts of the Baron and his men.

Movement near the upper edge of his alcove caught his attention and he crouched, dagger in hand, chastising himself for letting his guard down. It was a trick he should have expected, sending a man around to attack from the top, but he’d not thought the Baron enough of a tactician to consider it. His error in judgment could very well have sealed his fate.

He gathered every ounce of his fading strength, readying himself for what could be his final battle as the intruder crept closer. Another shot rang out, another cry from below, and Aramis realized whoever was shooting was not hunting him but helping him. Before he was able to properly digest the turn of events, the intruder stepped onto the ledge and ducked down, two pistols aimed in his direction, forcing Aramis to fall back onto his butt, his eyes wide in disbelief.

“Porthos!” he gasped.

The big man smiled in greeting as he dropped the still smoking pistols to his side. His expression quickly sobered as his eyes roved over his friend’s battered form, not pleased with what he found.

“Where did he get a pistol?” Colbert’s inquiry wafted up from below, his fear apparent.

“I don’t know,” the Baron’s tone was clipped, angry. “But it will not help him. Find him!” 

Aramis assumed the order was directed to the guards who rode with them, but for the moment, his joy at seeing his friend alive – and armed – was demanding all of his attention.

“You look like shit,” Porthos grinned as he reached out to grab hold of Aramis’ ankle, obviously needing a physical connection to assure himself of his friend’s vitality.

“You are the most beautiful sight in the world,” Aramis returned the grin. Knowing he was no longer alone brought an immense sense of relief. He reached up to run a trembling hand through his tangled hair, only realizing it was shaking when he saw the look of concern on Porthos’ face. Quickly he tightened it into a fist, dropping it to his side to hide his weakness.

Porthos graciously pretended not to notice. “We need to move,” he announced, squeezing the ankle beneath his warm palm. “You ready?”

Aramis nodded, not trusting his voice to remain steady, unwilling to let Porthos know just how close to collapse he truly was.

A shot pinged off the rocks close to Porthos’ head and the big man instinctively ducked, throwing a glare over the rocks toward the men below. Without hesitation, Aramis braced his foot against a medium sized boulder and pushed, sending it over the side to crash down toward the men below. The shouts of surprise and anger made Porthos chuckle, and he turned to Aramis, grunting in amusement.

“You done?” 

Aramis answered the question with a smug smile. “For now.”

Porthos laughed and picked up both pistols, leading the way to safety.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos and d’Artagnan dismounted, quietly handing the reins of the horses to David, motioning for him to stay out of sight. The boy nodded, his eyes wide, standing tall with pride at the responsibility with which he’d been charged. D’Artagnan gave him a grin as he pulled his pistol and followed Athos into the trees.

The clearing was quiet. They had come from the path leading around the small shack, sneaking up behind the structure with stealth borne of practice. At a quick nod from Athos, d’Artagnan took the lead, silently creeping along the side of the hovel until he reached the front corner. Craning his neck around, his eyebrows disappeared into his bangs as he stared at the scene before him.

He leaned back against the wall, snorting in amusement as Athos crept up beside him.

At the swordsman’s look of confusion, d’Artagnan simply shook his head. “You’re not going to believe this.”

He stepped out fully into the open, Athos on his heels, giving the older Musketeer a cheeky grin as he tilted his head toward the front of the shack.

Two men – no doubt in the employ of the Baron d’Orbec, were lying on the ground just outside the open door of the building, back to back, trussed up like a Christmas goose. Another body, blood dried on his face, lay a few paces away. A sword stood erect as a sentinel piercing the man’s chest, leaving little doubt as to his condition.

“This looks like Porthos’ handy-work to me,” Athos stated dryly.

He took a few steps forward until he stood directly above the two trussed up guards. Crouching, he made a show of looking them up and down, a smile teasing at his lips as the men craned their necks to regard him, their eyes hostile.

“Apparently, you’ve met a friend of mine,” Athos addressed them in a casual voice.

“Release us!” one of the guards demanded. “We are in the employ of the Baron d’Orbec. He will not stand for this!”

“And I am in the employ of the King of France,” Athos responded. “And he would most likely be quite interested in how you came to be in such an untenable position.” He glanced to the side as David approached with the horses. The boy looked with surprise to d’Artagnan at seeing the guards’ predicament, a smile forming on his face as Athos continued.

“Perhaps you could explain what happened here?”

One of the men turned away, clearly not wanting to chance angering another of the King’s guard. The other, his face scratched and bruised, was too angry to consider the tenuousness of their situation. “We were attacked. The big brute managed to get out of the hole and he jumped me when I went to take a piss!”

D’Artagnan didn’t know whether to laugh at the guard’s indignation or be furious at the treatment of his friend. He walked to the far side of the small clearing and leaned over the pit dug into the earth, noting the abandoned water skins and uneaten, filthy piece of bread. It only took a moment for his anger to surge. If Porthos and Aramis had been kept in this hole, whatever the big Musketeer had done to the guards, he’d let them off easy.

“What of the other Musketeer?” Athos demanded.

“Why should we tell you anything?” the guard spat. Despite not being able to break free of the rope that held him captive, he glared at Athos with resentment.

Athos sighed, leaned an arm against his thigh and scratched at his chin as if considering the question.

“If you tell me what I want to know, I will see you are set free.” He leaned closer, allowing his voice to harden, speaking barely above a whisper. “But if you persist in this unnecessary obstinance, my friends and I will ride away, forgetting we ever saw you.” He looked around. “I am not familiar with the area, but I can only assume this forest is filled with predators that would enjoy an easy meal.”

The guard’s eyes took on a nervous gleam, but it was his comrade who broke the silence. “The Baron set out this morning after the other one, the dandy.”

“Hunting him?” d’Artagnan approached, arms clasped tight over his chest.

The second guard nodded reluctantly, unable to meet the Gascon’s fiery gaze.

“Was he given anything to defend himself with?”

“A dagger,” the man assured them. “The big one set out after him a couple of hours ago, but…”

The young Musketeer nudged him in the leg with his foot. “But?”

“The Baron has hounds. I doubt your friend could evade him this long.”

“You don’t know Aramis,” d’Artagnan assured him, stepping back as Athos regained his feet. They turned in unison and made their way back to David and the horses.

“Wait!” the guard with the bruised face called. “You said you’d free us!” He thrashed about in his bindings as if to illustrate the point.

“I believe I said I would see to you being set free,” Athos responded as he pulled himself into his saddle. “Once we find our friends, I will make sure someone is sent back to do so.”

D’Artagnan swung up into his own saddle, reaching a hand down and pulling David up behind him. As they moved into the trees, the guards’ angry curses coloring the breeze behind them, the Gascon shook his head, chuckling. “Aramis is going to be outraged they called him a dandy.”

Athos turned, one brow quirked in amusement. “I believe that will not be the only thing our friend will take exception to.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

When Porthos finally called a halt to their aimless dash through the trees, Aramis dropped to the ground with an agonized moan, gasping as he tried to suck air into his lungs. He leaned forward, head down, arms wrapped around his torso, unsuccessfully attempting to find a position that eased the unrelenting pain that seemed to encompass his entire body. His head was pounding in beat with his racing heart, his shoulder stiff and sore. His feet were once again bleeding, pulsing with pain and he cringed at the thought of placing his weight on them when the time came to continue the journey.

But continue they must. The Baron and his men would not give up easily. Men like that did not react well to losing and Aramis knew the Baron would double his efforts – even at the risk to his men and animals – the moment he realized his quarry had escaped his clutches. It was a miracle Porthos had managed to find him when he did, and though Aramis believed whole-heartedly in the benevolence of a compassionate God, he suspected he had most probably used up his share of Divine attention for the day. 

As his gasps for air became more controlled and less ragged, he raised his head and opened his eyes, only to encounter his savior’s concerned countenance. Porthos was crouched in front of him – a position that had to be painful for his wounded knee – watching him with worried eyes.

“You really do look like shit, ‘Mis.”

Aramis huffed a laugh and would have fallen over if not for the quick reflexes of his friend who caught his good shoulder and eased him back to recline against the rough bark of a large oak.

“I suspect you are quite possibly being too kind, my friend.”

Porthos nodded to the dagger still clutched in Aramis’ dirt encrusted fist.

“You plannin’ on usin’ that?”

With effort, the marksman managed to open his stiff fingers and allow the worn dagger to fall to the ground.

“That’s better,” Porthos grinned. “Didn’t want you to get any ideas, being so well armed and all.”

Aramis laughed, knowing his friend was simply trying to put him at ease. “I doubt it would do much more than give you a good tickle.”

Porthos picked up the dagger and ran his thumb along the dull edge, grunting in agreement before turning and hurling the useless weapon into the trees.

“We might need that,” Aramis leaned his head against the bark, his eyes watching as the dagger disappeared into the shadows.

“I figure these will work a bit better.”

Porthos leaned to the side and pulled closer a bundle he had snatched up as they’d dashed into the trees just beyond the ridge. Aramis had taken little notice at the time, but now recognized his sheathed sword thrust through the knot at the top. As Porthos unwrapped the bundle revealing Aramis’ weapons along with his doublet, boots and pauldron, the marksman shivered, realizing he was still wet from perspiration and the water from the stream. Gooseflesh appeared on his exposed arms and chest and he swallowed, reaching for the warm leather of his coat.

Pulling the doublet over top of himself, he smiled at Porthos gratefully, sinking back and relishing in the warmth the heavy material provided.

“Thought you might need these, too,” Porthos said holding up Aramis’ worn boots. 

Aramis looked from the scuffed leather to Porthos’ expectant grin and rolled his eyes dramatically. “You couldn’t have mentioned this earlier?”

The big man looked down to the marksman’s feet, his smile turning to a frown instantly. 

Aramis bent his ankles, one by one, to assess the damage for himself, immediately regretting his attempt at levity. The soles of both feet were cracked and filthy, bleeding from a myriad of shallow cuts. It was painful and it would not be pleasant to walk on them until they could be cleaned and have time to heal, but the damage was not as severe as he had feared.

“It looks worse than it is, Porthos,” he assured, smiling to lessen the sting of his earlier remark. 

Porthos handed over the boots, but didn’t seem entirely convinced. 

“Getting as far as possible was more important at the time. Having the boots now will make it much easier to proceed.” Aramis continued. He made a show of inspecting the soft, scarred leather. “Though it would have been nice if you could’ve given them a bit of a polish.”

It was Porthos’ turn to roll his eyes. “Just shut up and put on the damn boots, will ya?”

Aramis laughed, feeling lighter for the familiar banter. Once the task was accomplished, Porthos helped him push his arms through the sleeves of the doublet, slapping the marksman’s hands away when he fumbled with the buckles and clasps.

With his uniform back in place, Aramis felt like a proper Musketeer again. He looked up to find Porthos regarding him intently. 

“What?”

Porthos shook his head and rose to his full height, reaching a hand down to help Aramis to his feet.

“I found your trap back at the incline. Not a bad bit of improvisin’.”

Aramis shrugged. “Desperate measures.”

Porthos grunted in agreement or annoyance, Aramis wasn’t sure. 

Since his blue sash was still wrapped around the larger man’s knee, Aramis buckled his weapons belt directly around his waist, hooking his sword in place, twisting the belt it until it was balanced.

“That’s better,” Porthos commented, stepping back and letting his eyes roam up and down his friend. He pulled Aramis’ pistol from his own belt and held it out to the marksman. “Thought you might want this back. Didn’t look right in that bastard’s hand.”

Aramis grinned, pleased to see the beautiful weapon. He reached out and took hold of the handle when Porthos flipped it in his own grip. Reverently he ran a hand over the intricate carving in the wood and the shiny filigree etched along the barrel.

“I see you had a word with our friend, Marchand.”

Porthos’ grin was feral, his eyes hard. “Let’s just say he won’t have much need for weapons anymore.”

Aramis simply nodded, knowing his friend had done what he needed to escape.

Aramis reloaded the pistol and clipped it in place, straightening and looking to Porthos for approval. While his head and feet still protested even the slightest movement, he felt better than he had since he’d woken up in the pit. He would welcome a bottle of wine, a warm bowl of stew and a soft bed – not necessarily in that order – but those comforts could wait. They had business to attend to first.

“You still want to get Colbert,” Porthos guessed.

Aramis nodded. “It was, after all, our mission.”

“Our mission was to find him,” Porthos corrected. “Then send back word and wait for reinforcements.”

“Well our objective has changed,” Aramis’ face hardened. “I believe the only way to thank the Baron d’Orbec for his most generous show of hospitality is to relieve him of his burden and make sure both he and Minister Colbert are dutifully rewarded.”

“Treville won’t be happy.”

“The Captain will be content in seeing Colbert returned to Paris.” Aramis assured him. “Having the Baron pay for his crimes will be an added bonus – a gift to present to His Majesty.”

Porthos chuckled, enjoying the gleam of determination alight in his friend’s dark eyes.

“Then I say we turn the tables.” He pulled his own pistol from his belt and held it up, letting it fall back against his shoulder. “What do you say we make the hunter become the hunted?”

Aramis returned his grin. He took a step forward and frowned, pulling on his sagging breeches. “You didn’t by any chance think to retrieve my braces after you were done admiring my ingenuity, did you?”

Porthos shrugged then shook his head awkwardly. “I had other things on my mind.” His voice rose at the end of the statement, making it sound more like a question.

Aramis clucked his tongue and moved around the big man, sighing dramatically. “Really, Porthos. We need to work on your sense of priorities.”

With another eye roll accompanied by a deep rumbling chuckle, Porthos followed his friend into the trees.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

It wasn’t long before Athos, d’Artagnan and David came upon the ledge, noting the myriad of foot and hoof prints leading down the trails. Athos’ trained eye scanned the slope as d’Artagnan skidded down to check on the bodies of the man and horse below. There was no doubt they were both dead, the only question being whether it was by accident or design.

D’Artagnan knelt beside the body of the man, searching it thoroughly before turning to reveal his findings. “Leg’s broken,” the young Musketeer reported. He tilted his head toward the body of the animal at the bottom of the ravine. “Looks as if the horse tripped, taking the rider with him. Man bled out, but it must’ve taken a while.”

Athos could only imagine the agony that kind of death would induce, but considering the man’s allegiance with du Merle, he couldn’t regret his demise. He let his gaze track up the steep path the guard had most likely attempted to traverse, grinning when his eyes alighted on the familiar pair of braces cutting across. 

“I believe we can credit this one to Aramis.” At d’Artagnan’s look of inquiry, he pointed to the path where the braces were still wrapped around the saplings on either side. “It looks as if our brothers have taken matters into their own hands.”

David, who had led both horses around the long winding path, appeared at the bottom of the ravine near the stream, heard Athos’ declaration and looked up at the swordsman, hope shining in his eyes.

“Do you think they’re still alive?”

Athos noted d’Artagnan’s expression was as hopeful and expectant as the boy’s. He nodded, more sure of his answer than he’d been since they’d rode out of the garrison days ago. 

“They’re alive,” he assured. “And no doubt teaching du Merle what it means to be a Musketeer.”

He carefully made his way down the slope to d’Artagnan who stood, Aramis’ braces in hand, and pointed upstream. “Tracks go that way. You think Porthos made it this far?”

“I believe Porthos could find Aramis with his eyes closed and would stop at nothing to ensure his brother’s safety.”

“Then I suggest we find them before the Baron runs out of men,” d’Artagnan grinned.

Athos patted him on the shoulder and started upstream, knowing d’Artagnan and David would follow.

TBC


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I put the number of chapters on this every single frickin' time, but I always end up with a ?. FYI, there are 11 chapters. There. Watch it work now. :)

Chapter 9

They moved swiftly and silently through the trees, much faster than either of them had the right to move considering their bodies’ recent abuse. Set on finding a way to come around behind the Baron and his men, Porthos guided them back the way he’d come, searching for a path that would lead them down to the ravine. 

D’Orbec had been livid when he’d realized his prey had escaped, his shouts carrying far into the forest, ordering his men to retrace their steps in search of a way up the ledge. The two Musketeers had been able to stay ahead of the hunting party, the braying of the dogs and splashing of horses’ hooves in the water keeping them aware of the Baron’s progress.

Porthos winced as his knee gave another wobble, the uneven ground and the hurried pace doing little to ease the ache that had settled deep in the joint. The stained blue sash wrapped around the leg was tight, the knee having swollen almost back to its previous size since he’d woken in the hole. He did his best not to limp, trying to hide his discomfort from Aramis. The marksman was having enough trouble keeping his own pain to himself, the last thing Porthos wanted was to burden his friend with concern over him.

A glance back at the slighter man showed him still moving forward, but Porthos could tell he was nearly spent. His head hung low, his breaths came in sharp gasps, lumbering from tree to tree to keep his balance. Porthos could only imagine how painful running on the damaged feet would be, but he knew Aramis would never complain – nor would he give up until he had no choice.

Suddenly Aramis stumbled, falling hard against the trunk of a large oak, grasping the rough bark as he slid down to the ground. Porthos paused, expecting the marksman to pick himself up as he’d done the three other times he’d tripped up, but this time the exhausted man stayed down, his eyes squeezed tight against dizziness and pain, and Porthos didn’t have the heart to force him to continue.

“Aramis?” Stepping back toward the marksman, Porthos couldn’t conceal the worry in his voice. 

“I’m fine,” Aramis made a valiant attempt to rise, his face covered in sweat, his dark curls plastered to his head.

“Stay,” Porthos ordered. He lowered himself to the ground, leaning back against the tree next to his friend. “Time for a break.” He straightened his leg in front of him, moving the knee up and down slowly.

“It’s swollen again,” Aramis observed. He reached forward as if to examine the leg, but Porthos caught his wrist, staying his movement.

“It’s all right. Just rest.”

Aramis leaned his head back against the bark, letting it roll wearily from side to side. “No. We have to keep moving. The Baron and Colbert –“

“Are not going anywhere,” Porthos interrupted. “We have time.”

It was true. Porthos could still hear the dogs and horses as they splashed their way back down the stream, but the sounds were faint, and he knew with the relatively level higher ground, they had made good time despite their injuries and were far enough ahead of the hunters to take a moment to collect themselves. 

“We need to find a place to ambush them,” Porthos knew if he could get his friend’s mind on something other than his many aches and pains, he would be able to find the strength to continue.

“There wasn’t much open area along the stream,” Aramis recalled. “And I didn’t veer from its path. The only open area with cover I can remember is the ledge where I set my trap.”

Porthos nodded, agreeing with the assessment. “Then we head back there. We can move faster up here than they can. There’s enough cover to surprise them, and they won’t be expectin’ anything so close to the edge of the forest.”

Aramis coughed and Porthos regretted not bringing one of the waterskins with him. Now that they were on the ridge running directly parallel to the stream, they could hear the babble of the water over the rocks but had no easy access to its relief. He could try to make his way down the slope, but without a skin to carry it back it would be a futile endeavor. It was obvious Aramis was in no condition to take such a risk, leaving them with no other option than to move forward and hope to arrive at the clearing before the Baron and his party.

He must have tensed, ready to move – or perhaps it was just that Aramis knew him too well, but the marksman’s hand was immediately gripping his arm, holding him fast. After a moment, Porthos relented and relaxed back against his friend’s side.

“I was worried you would not be able to climb out of that pit,” Aramis admitted after a few moments of companionable silence. “Leaving you behind was an extremely difficult thing to do.”

“It’s not like you had much choice,” Porthos bumped his friend’s shoulder lightly, careful not to cause any unnecessary pain. “Don’t remember anyone asking politely if you wanted to play this stupid game.”

Aramis snorted a laugh, letting his head drop back against the tree, his eyes closed. “True. I do enjoy a good chase, just not one that could lead to my demise.”

“Then maybe you should stay away from married women, yeah?”

This time the laugh came from deeper in his chest. “And disappoint all the fine ladies of Paris? You don’t know what you ask, my friend.” 

Porthos’ chuckle rumbled in reply.

“Knowing you would need time is the only thing that kept me going.” Aramis voice took on a more serious tone and he glanced to his side to see his friend’s smile had disappeared.

Porthos had assumed as much. “I was afraid I’d never see you again,” he confessed softly. Knowing his friend was out there, alone, leading the Baron away had been the motivation he’d needed to get himself up and out – knee be damned. “By the time I made it to the shack and confronted Marchand… “ The man’s death had been of his own making, Porthos reminded himself. And even if it hadn’t, it had been the only way to get to Aramis. “I didn’t know if I would be able to track you. Luckily the Baron made following him fairly easy.”

“The man is arrogant to a fault.”

“Lucky for us.”

Aramis coughed again and Porthos was instantly alert, looking over the marksman with concern.

“I’m all right,” Aramis voice was scratchy. He coughed again, a weak, dry thing that made Porthos swallow in sympathy. When Aramis turned his head, his face was still flushed and covered in sweat, but his eyes were clear and resolute. “We must move on. We’ve no more time to waste.”

Reluctantly, Porthos nodded in agreement and gathered himself to rise, pressing a hand against his thigh just above his swollen knee. Movement below stayed him and he frowned, tilting his head to listen intently. Expecting the now familiar sounds of horses from behind them, his heart sped up when he suddenly realized the approaching threat was coming from in front of them.

Could the Baron have somehow summoned more men? Or did the guards from the shack that Porthos had let live somehow free themselves and followed the tracks of the hunting party as he did? Either way, they were in trouble, caught like quail in the middle of an impending crossfire.

“What?”

Aramis had picked up on his tension, raising his head, his eyes searching the growing shadows surrounding them. The sun would soon set behind the horizon, leaving the forest blanketed in darkness. Twillight would give them an advantage, being above the approaching parties, having a vantage point to assess their positions, but they would be woefully outnumbered and outgunned. 

They could move deeper into the forest, taking their chances against the predators that roamed the night, but the chance of becoming lost in the vast expanse was great, and Aramis was in no condition to survive a prolonged trek through the woods. If Porthos was being completely honest, his knee was beginning to be far more than a simple inconvenience. He knew the longer he continued to abuse the joint, the greater the threat of permanent damage grew. He didn’t need Aramis’ medical knowledge to tell him the escalating pain and stiffness was bad, and if he didn’t stop and rest the leg soon, it could become not only a detriment to his continued mobility but to their very survival. 

He held up a hand as Aramis tried to push himself to his feet, struggling up himself and silently moving to a copse of trees near the edge of the slope. The men coming from the front were moving swiftly but cautiously, staying on the soft bank of the stream as opposed to splashing through the water. He pulled his pistol and crouched, feeling more than hearing Aramis come up behind him.

He glanced back at the marksman, pleased to see him focused on the same spot in the shadows, his pistol out, main gauche lying beside him as he wedged a supporting shoulder against a neighboring tree. He caught Porthos’ eye, giving him a nod, and Porthos relaxed a bit, knowing his friend was ready for whatever they faced.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

D’Artagnan tripped over a stone, cursing under his breath. David snickered at the younger Musketeer, clamping a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. They had been following the tracks left by the Baron’s party for more than an hour, the last light of day beginning to fade into dusk.

Athos knew it would be almost impossible to track the Baron in the dark, though he assumed if they stayed along the stream, they would no doubt run into them at some point. Hoping the dark was enough of an equalizer – for them and for their missing friends – they continued to slog along, careful of their footing in the soft, lose dirt. 

Despite his earlier words of optimism, he found himself still troubled over his brothers’ fates. Knowing Porthos was free and in good enough condition to take on three guards and win had been a relief, but Aramis’ condition – especially after a full day of being pursued through the forest like an animal – was still a concern.

He had often likened the marksman to a cat; one who always landed on his feet, rarely the worse for wear, but in this instance he would equate the man more to a fox. Wily, crafty, and dangerous if cornered. If a challenging hunt had been du Merle’s fancy, Athos was sure his friend had given the Baron exactly what he’d wished and more. Of course, du Merle had no idea just what he’d been asking, nor would he have been expecting the resistance a seasoned soldier such as Aramis could mount. 

A dandy, indeed. The guards, like many others, had underestimated his friend. It was something Aramis had become quite proud of. The ability to make the world see exactly what he wanted them to see had served the marksman well over the years. It was a trait Athos admired, and in a peculiar way shared. Though his dour mien was nowhere near as affable as the face Aramis presented to the world, it was no less a mask, covering the grief and torment that infested his soul. 

Shaking himself from his morbid train of thought, Athos paused as the sounds of barking dogs floated toward them on the wind. He estimated the animals were still some distance off, the sound carrying due to the channel the ledge along their right created. D’Artagnan must have heard it also because he quickly handed David the reins to his horse and moved up to Athos’ side.

“Should we find a place to hide the horses?”

Athos shook his head. “Not yet. I believe they are yet too far away to detect us.”

He scanned the area just ahead, his eyes narrowing in the low light. A prickle bristled the back of his neck and he tensed, his senses alerting him to danger nearby.

“Athos?”

The swordsman shook his head, unable to explain the instinctive reaction, but trusting it nonetheless. Slowly, quietly, he pulled his sword from its sheath, noting d’Artagnan follow suit as he crept forward. Careful to keep his feet on the soft dirt to muffle any sound, he crouched in a deep shadow, his attention directed up toward the top of the imposing ledge.

Pursing his lips he let out a long, low whistle, followed by two quick, higher pitched ones, then tilted his head and waited.

It only took a moment for the rejoinder – two quick low whistles followed by a higher long one – to sound.

Looking back at a confused d’Artagnan, Athos grinned. “It’s Porthos.”

Hissing a laugh through his nose, the younger man shook his head in admiration. Waving to David to move, he followed Athos further down the stream, stopping a few paces down where Athos was already craning his neck, his attention directed to the top of the slope.

Seconds later, Porthos stepped out from behind a large oak, smiling as he gazed down at his friends. The big Musketeer looked disheveled, his doublet torn and sullied, but he was in one piece. A dingy piece of cloth was wrapped around his right knee, bright blue peeking out between the caked on mud and grime. Movement to Porthos’ right caught his attention and Athos turned to see Aramis – even more unkempt than Porthos – leaning heavily against another tree.

The marksman had lost his hat, and his doublet was cleaner than Porthos’, but it was the sweat that clung to his face and plastered his curls to his head that gave him the look of a cat left too long out in the rain. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, unusual considering his normal grace, but his smile was genuine and Athos couldn’t help but grin back, the last of his trepidation melting away.

Porthos leaned back around the tree and spoke to Aramis, but they were too far away for Athos to make out the words. Their heads all swung upstream as the barking of the dogs pierced the air, clearer than before, closer. Porthos pointed to himself then Athos, indicating they would make their way down the slope to them and Athos nodded in understanding.

Turning to d’Artagnan he gestured toward the horses. “Get the mounts turned around. I suspect one or both of them will need to ride out.”

“Are we just leaving the Baron?”

Athos sighed. “If I had my way, yes, for now. But I doubt neither Aramis nor Porthos will feel quite as charitable. As soon as they find a way down to us, we should be ready to move out.”

D’Artagnan nodded and rushed back to help David with the horses.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos was the first to make it down the slope just a bit back downstream from where they’d stopped. As he stumbled down the final few steps, d’Artagnan caught him, allowing the bigger man to lean on him as he rubbed at the leg wrapped in the filthy bandage. Slapping d’Artagnan on the back, Porthos wordlessly moved closer to the slope next to Athos, reaching out as Aramis lost his footing and tumbled into the two men.

“He’s had a hard day,” Porthos quipped as Aramis righted himself, pushing away from the support to stand on his own wobbly two legs.

“Apparently,” Athos responded. He stepped back, both hands still outstretched as if unsure as to whether the marksman would remain upright. Before Aramis could respond, David rushed forward, wrapping his arms around him. Athos quick reflexes were the only thing that stopped the collision from taking them both to the ground.

Instead of being annoyed at the contest to his shaky stability, Aramis huffed a laugh, wrapping an arm around the boy’s back and patted him gently. 

“It’s good to see you, too, David.”

The boy craned his neck to look up at the Musketeer, but didn’t release his hold. “I was afraid you were dead.” He turned to look at Porthos with watery eyes. “Both of you. I was afraid the Baron had killed you like –.” Unable to finish, he buried his face against Aramis’ doublet, squeezing the Musketeer impossibly tighter.

“It’s all right, little man,” Porthos cooed gently. He shuffled over, placing a hand on the boy’s head, ruffling his hair. “We told you we could handle the Baron. See? Here we both are, well and fit.”

Athos hoisted a brow, silently debating the claim.

Aramis laughed, disentangling himself from the distressed boy, kneeling down before him.

“David, you have brought our friends to us. Whatever transgression you believe you have committed has been forgiven.”

David shook his head, unable to meet Aramis’ eyes. “You don’t understand.”

Aramis ducked his head, attempting to catch the boy’s gaze. “I understand that the Baron threatened you unless you did as he bid.”

David looked at him in shock, surprised at the Musketeer’s insight. “How…?”

“How did I know you were coerced into delivering us to the Baron?” Aramis laughed and ruffled the boy’s hair. “You tried to tell us when we arrived at the estate. I am sorry we did not listen.”

David sniffed and wiped a sleeve across his face, smudging the dirt that covered his cheek. “You aren’t angry with me?”

Aramis smiled, shaking his head. “Of course not. My anger is reserved for the men who put you in such an untenable position in the first place.”

David turned, seeking confirmation from the other three men. Porthos nodded, his hand squeezing the boy’s slim shoulder.

“All is forgiven, eh?”

David smiled, turning back to Aramis and nodding enthusiastically. 

“I don’t suppose you would consider leaving now and returning tomorrow to confront du Merle?” Athos asked.

“Who?”

“The Baron,” d’Artagnan responded to Porthos’ inquiry. “Apparently Athos is an old acquaintance.”

Porthos frowned at the swordsman. “So he said. I take it the son isn’t who you expected us to run into?”

Athos raised a hand in apology. “It wasn’t until after we returned from the King’s hunt that Treville informed me the title had been passed down. If I had known, I would have never suggested you turn to him for assistance.”

“Athos was so upset, he insisted Treville allow us to leave at first light,” d’Artagnan halfheartedly attempted to hide his teasing grin.

“I was not upset,” Athos corrected. “Knowing du Merle as I did, I was merely wary of what you might encounter.” He glanced at Aramis, his eyes raking up and down the marksman’s battered appearance before adding, “a concern that seems to have been warranted.”

Porthos tilted his head in agreement. “Your friend has a peculiar way of entertainin’ guests. I hope you don’t intend to renew the relationship.” The threat was unmistakable, as was the big Musketeer’s anger.

“I have no intention of standing in your way,” Athos assured him. “And I understand your eagerness to confront him, but perhaps you could wait until we can send for reinforcements?”

“I thought that was what you two were.”

Athos sighed in resolution. “I assume you have a plan?”

Porthos nodded. “Head back to the ledge where Aramis set his trap and set up an ambush.”

“Speaking of which…” d’Artagnan reached into his doublet and pulled out a pair of braces, presenting them to Aramis with a flourish worthy of the marksman himself. “I believe these are yours.”

Aramis beamed, accepting the gift with a pointed look at Porthos. “Thank you, d’Artagnan. How very considerate of you.”

Porthos ignored his friend, turning his attention to Athos. 

“Well?”

The swordsman tilted his head in agreement. “A simple plan, yet I believe it will be effective with the four of us.” He turned to Aramis who was now leaning against David, the boy supporting some of his weight. “How bad?”

“I’ll live,” the marksman returned. He didn’t make an attempt to straighten, knowing his exhaustion and pain were apparent.

“And you?” Athos turned to Porthos, not bothering to address Aramis’ deflection.

“Wrenched my knee,” he responded honestly. “But it’s holdin’.”

Despite appearances, Athos knew better than to doubt either of them. They would never put anyone at risk by lying about their injuries. It was obvious Aramis was far from well and Porthos was barely able to walk, but he didn’t doubt both would keep themselves together long enough to confront their antagonist.

“What about Colbert?” d’Artagnan asked. “Finding him and returning him to Paris was the original mission.”

“Colbert is with the Baron,” Aramis informed them. “They have apparently come to an accord.”

“So we find the Baron, we find Colbert.” The young man surmised. He turned to Athos with a shrug. “It seems we have no choice.”

“No,” Athos agreed. “It seems we do not.”

TBC


	10. Chapter Ten

**Chapter 10**

The dogs had picked up the Musketeer’s scent once again, straining at their leads, barking incessantly. Colbert wished they would just find the man and kill him so the blasted hounds would finally stop the annoying yapping; it was giving him a headache.

Of course the headache was more likely caused by the Musketeer himself. The infernal man had led them on such a wild chase through the forest only to miraculously escape just when they thought him finished. The rage that had shown in the Baron’s eyes when he’d learned of his failure had been more amusing than daunting, reminding Colbert of a child who had been relieved of his favorite toy. He had tried to tell the Baron not to underestimate the soldier, but it was to no avail.

These Musketeers were far more trouble than they were worth.

Colbert shifted in the saddle, his backside sore, unused to riding for so many hours in one day. The ride had been slow, the horses carefully picking their way along the shallow stream that ran alongside the ridge. But even the leisurely pace had not sufficed to make the journey anything more than bearable, though Colbert hadn’t decided whether it was the commission itself or the company he had been forced to endure that had left him so irritated.

As they rounded another bend, it surprised Colbert to see the dead horse lying at the base of the ledge, recognizing the path they had originally taken to the ravine. He stifled a laughed, realizing the Musketeer had managed to lead them full circle, right back to where they had started. The dead guard was still lying halfway up the steep slope, most of the body obscured by the twigs and leaves of a small bush and Colbert cringed, averting his eyes from the corpse, content with the idea of death, but ill at ease with the reality of it.

The hounds began to growl and snarl ahead and Colbert leaned to the side, pleased to see the Musketeer on his knees on the far side of the stream near a small glade. With the thick trees bordering the clearing and the steep slope on the other side, there was nowhere for the Musketeer to run and, from the looks of him, he had neither the energy nor fortitude left to try. 

The remaining handler took tight control of hounds’ leads, keeping their snapping jaws from the man, allowing the Baron to dismount and stroll arrogantly forward. He stopped just to side of the defeated soldier, looking down his nose, a haughty, satisfied smile on his narrow face.

“It seems our game is at an end.”

The Musketeer – Aramis, Colbert recalled the name – lifted his dark eyes to the Baron, his hands at his sides, his head still held high and proud. Something in Colbert’s mind told him all was not as it seemed; the man’s countenance was not what one would expect from someone doomed to die at the hands of a monster like the Baron. Indeed, he seemed… calm, almost pleased that the hunting party had appeared in this space. Though Colbert could see no way out for the Musketeer, his composure in the face of his demise was more than a bit disconcerting.

“Perhaps we are not playing the same game,” Aramis replied, his smile cold, hard.

Colbert didn’t like the dangerous glint in the man’s eyes.

Before the Baron could respond, the body Colbert had assumed was the dead guard moved. One of the three Musketeers that had questioned him in Paris – the one who looked no more than a boy – rose from the dirt, pistol in one hand, rapier in the other. A noise from the other side forced him to whip his head around in time to see the other two appear out of the trees as if by magic, weapons drawn. Colbert was relieved to see all pistols aimed at the Baron. 

“Or perhaps,” Aramis said, gaining his feet and pulling his dagger from behind his back, “you simply do not understand the rules.”

The Baron sputtered, twirling as he took in the Musketeers surrounding him.

“This is an outrage!” he spat. “Drop your weapons at once!”

“We will do no such thing, My Lord.” The Musketeer that had spoken to Colbert in Paris, the one he had assumed to be the leader, stepped forward. The Baron frowned, pursing his lips as he studied the man.

“I know you,” the Baron turned, his attention focusing on the black clad Musketeer. Colbert saw the moment recognition dawned. “Olivier? My God, it is you. Olivier d’Athos.” A malevolent smile spread across his narrow face. “I’d always wondered what had happened to you after that disastrous affair with your wife.” He laughed, shaking his head. “The infamous Comte de la Fére, a common soldier. It has been a long time, Olivier.”

“Not long enough,” the Musketeer responded without inflection. It was obvious the Baron was attempting to goad the man into some kind of reaction, but the Musketeer – Athos – held himself in check effortlessly. 

It wasn’t a surprise to discover one of Louis’ Musketeers was of noble birth, but an actual Comte? That was a revelation. One Colbert wondered if he could make use of.

“Monsieur Colbert,” Athos ignored the Baron, unaffected by the man’s acerbic attitude. “If you would be so good as to dismount.”

Colbert swallowed, looking to the d’Orbec for some indication of what to do, but the man remained too focused on Athos to be of any assistance. They were caught between the four armed and determined Musketeers. His many years in Paris had given him a respect for the fighting prowess of the elite soldiers and he knew without a doubt, evenly numbered, the Baron’s men were no match for them. But d’Orbec had not given the order to surrender, and Colbert did not relish the thought of returning to Paris to face Louis’ wrath.

Knowing he could not fight and seeing no other alternative, he spurred his horse forward, directly through the throng, directing the horse straight ahead toward the disheveled Musketeer who had brought it all to this point. The man ducked away as the animal bore down, rolling into the stream as Colbert flew by. He reined in as they approached the winding path to the top and directed the horse up, hopefully to freedom.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis knew what Colbert intended to do before the man even moved. He watched the panic flash in his eyes, knowing he would not surrender the King’s gold without a fight. Unfortunately, fight was not one of the former minister’s strong points, leaving only one option. 

As Colbert’s horse barreled down on him, scattering the Baron’s men and dogs, Aramis dove to his right, rolling through the ankle deep water of the stream, coming to a halt against a fallen tree near the base of the steep slope. Forcing himself to his feet, he saw Athos and Porthos on the other side of the water, both preparing to combat the Baron’s remaining guards. One of the dogs had charged toward Porthos, and Aramis could only watch in horror as the animal bared its teeth and latched on to the big man’s wounded leg.

Without taking time to aim, Aramis threw the dagger in his hand, hitting the hound in the back of the head. The animal didn’t make a sound as its jaws slackened and released its prey, falling to the ground in a bloody heap. Porthos’ quick wink of thanks before returning to his opponent was enough for the marksman to know his friend was all right. He’d probably feel the wounds from the dog’s teeth later, but for now, the rush of battle would keep him going and Aramis knew from experience it was enough.

D’Artagnan raced down the slope to his right, catching one of the men facing Athos in a tackle that would’ve made Porthos proud. The pair rolled further into the small clearing, as Athos quickly dispatched the third guard, leaving him facing the Baron. 

Hoof beats behind drew his attention and he turned in time to see Colbert, leaning forward in the saddle, urge his mount up the steep incline as the path wound back from behind the trees. Pulling his pistol from his belt, he scampered straight up the slope, using saplings and rocks for balance, determined to get to the top before the minister could disappear into the forest.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos stepped aside as d’Artagnan tackled the guard. The second man charged and the Athos pivoted, slashing at him, dropping him to the ground, blood spurting from a deep gash across his chest. A quick glance behind showed d’Artagnan bouncing up from his roll, rapier out in challenge as the man he’d downed growled and picked himself up from the dirt. It wasn’t Athos’ normal style to allow anyone to interfere with a contest, but under the circumstances he was more than content to let the Gascon deal with the guard, knowing he had another far more personal battle at hand.

A quick look to his left showed Porthos engaged, limping around his opponent, but having little difficulty taking control of the fight. He didn’t know how much longer the big man would be able to keep his feet considering his injury and exhaustion, but one look at the cold determination in the Musketeer’s eyes told Athos he would not go down until the Baron’s man was dealt with.

D’Artagnan was now dancing around his opponent, obviously toying with the man. Athos rolled his eyes, barely able to suppress the urge to order the young man to take the bout more seriously, but he had the guard clearly outmatched, d’Artagnan in no danger, his grin showing his delight at the chance to demonstrate his talent with a sword. If anything untoward happened, Athos was sure Porthos would soon dispense with his opponent and be able to back d’Artagnan’s play.

He’d seen Aramis disappear over the top of the ledge in pursuit of Colbert, followed closely by one of the dogs. Knowing Aramis could take care of himself – even in the less than fit condition he currently found himself in – Athos had turned his attention to du Merle who now stood before him, rapier unsheathed, a patronizing smile on his lips.

“I would say this is a long time in coming, Olivier.”

Athos, who still held his pistol in one hand, tossed the weapon to the ground, shifting his rapier into his right. He turned, holding the sword straight out toward the Baron.

“It is Athos now.”

“Of course, Athos.” Du Merle pronounced the name as though it left a bad taste in his mouth. “I have wanted to test your skill ever since we were children. The great Olivier. Swordsman extraordinaire.”

“I was merely a better student than you, Jean.”

“You believed yourself better in many ways, Olivier,” du Merle sneered. 

“If that is how you perceived it.” Athos didn’t bother to argue. When he’d first arrived in Paris, he would not have been so sure of the disparity, but his brothers had taken much time and effort to make him believe he was of some worth. His life would never be equal to theirs, but his contribution as a soldier, his dedication to France and the loyalty of his brothers was worth more than the Baron could ever hope to understand.

Du Merle raised his sword to his lips in salute and Athos followed in kind before sinking into position, waiting for the Baron to make the first move.

“As I said before, I have been waiting for this for a long time.” The Baron lowered his head, eyes gleaming in hatred. “Now we shall see who is truly the better man.”

A shot rang out from above and Athos chanced a glance at the ridge, realizing his mistake as du Merle took advantage of his momentary distraction to launch an attack. Athos stepped back, parrying the lunge, setting his feet and pressing in return. 

It only took moments for the Musketeer to realize his opponent, despite his bluster and arrogance, was no master swordsman. Years of intimidating others to respond as he wished had given du Merle little incentive to increase his skill. Instead he had allowed his conceit and self-indulgence to fill him with a false sense of accomplishment. It was all Athos could do not to openly mock the man’s form, his footwork shoddy, his balance less stable than a raw recruit’s. 

If Aramis had known, Athos mused, the marksman would’ve simply taken a sword to the Baron, making the entire day’s activities unnecessary. 

He let du Merle continue a moment longer, easily parrying each thrust and strike. Finally the Baron’s frustration got the better of him and he lunged forward, overextending, leaving himself open for Athos’ blade to pierce the basket of his rapier and rip the weapon from his hand, tossing it a few paces away into the stream.

Athos kicked out, catching the man off balance as he attempted to reach for the flying rapier, sending him to his knees. He approached, arm extended, laying his sword across the Baron’s shoulder, blade kissing his neck.

“Jean du Merle, Baron d’Orbec,” Athos’ voice was level, formal. “Do you submit?”

“I will have your head for this,” du Merle threatened. “You have no idea who you are dealing with.”

“You are a petty man who believes himself far above his worth.” Athos intoned. “The King will know of your treachery and your cruelty. There is no one to protect you this time.”

The Baron’s shoulders slumped in defeat and Athos couldn’t suppress the tiny thrill of victory that spiked in his gut. Footsteps sounded from behind and he turned to find d’Artagnan leading a badly limping Porthos toward him. The two Musketeers, arms slung across the other’s shoulder for support, grinned in satisfaction at seeing the Baron kneeling at Athos’ feet. But the grins abruptly changed when du Merle dove to the side reaching for Athos’ discarded pistol. He turned, ready to raise the gun and fire, only to find Athos’ rapier in position, piercing his chest as he surged forward.

He dropped the pistol, his hands grasping at the blade embedded in his body, his eyes wide with shock as he tried and failed to pull it loose. 

Athos took a knee, bringing his eyes level with du Merle’s. “Your mistake,” he admonished coldly, “was believing yourself above all others. Believing yourself above my brother.”

Du Merle reached a shaking hand forward, grasping Athos’ doublet with waning strength. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came forth. Athos wrenched the man’s hand away and stood. He wrapped his hand around the grip of his sword and placing a foot against the Baron’s side, pulled the blade free in a single stroke. Du Merle gasped once then toppled to the ground, his final mistake his last.

“Bet that felt good,” Porthos commented as the other two Musketeers limped up beside the swordsman. 

Athos grunted in response. It had.

“But I’m guessing Aramis will be a bit put out he didn’t get to see it.” Porthos looked around, his brow furrowing in concern. “Where is Aramis?”

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

As he topped the rise, Aramis heard a snarl behind him and turned his head in time to see one of the Baron’s hounds launch itself up the slope, snapping at the marksman’s feet. Scrambling onto level ground, the animal landed on his back, driving him into the dirt, hot saliva dripping into his hair. Quickly he rolled, forcing the dog off, only to drop his pistol in favor of using both hands to grab the hound’s neck as it renewed its attack, muzzle dangerously close to his face. 

The animal wasn’t overly large but it was strong, and Aramis was in no condition to fight a lengthy battle with such a determined opponent. He grit his teeth, putting all the strength he could muster into his arms as he tried to push the animal away, only to have it shift on his chest, digging its claws into his wounded shoulder. He felt the skin give way to the sharp pressure, turning his head and crying out in frustration as the dog’s fangs snapped at his exposed neck.

A shot rang out from close by and the dog whimpered, suddenly jerking to the side. With his hands already pushing against the animal’s pelt, Aramis was able to use the momentum to shove it off his chest with surprisingly little resistance. With the weight of the animal gone, he rolled the opposite way, looking around wildly, wondering which of his brothers had fired the shot that had saved his life. What he saw made his words of thanks stick in his throat.

David stood just on the edge of the slope, arms outstretched, Aramis’ pistol held firmly in his grasp. Smoke still rose from the barrel as the boy slowly lowered it, eyes wide, locked on the still body of the hound lying in the dirt. His gaze shifted to Aramis who grinned, nodding his head in thanks for the lad’s quick thinking. Had he known before the boy was anywhere near the fighting, he would have chastised him for not doing as he was told and staying hidden until the Baron, Colbert and his men had been secured. But considering David had most probably just saved him from a hideous death or life long disfigurement – the latter thought making him shudder more than the first – he supposed it was only fitting to commend him on his initiative.

But first….

Colbert had reined up when the dog had viciously attacked the Musketeer, no doubt hoping the hound emerged victorious. Once it was apparent he would not be able to enjoy Aramis’ bloody demise, he’d turned his horse and renewed his effort to escape. Launching himself up, Aramis covered the ground between them with a speed borne of determination, diving forward as he neared, latching onto Colbert’s leg. The momentum of the horse was enough to topple the minister from the saddle, and he fell back into the Musketeer, carrying them both to the ground.

Aramis rolled, narrowly avoiding the horse’s hooves, scrambling back to his feet as Colbert shook his head, pushing himself up on his elbows, mud and leaves plastered to one side of his face.

Aramis grabbed Colbert by the scruff of his neck and hauled him up, shoving him back, pinning him to the rough bark of a tree. He braced an arm across his neck, applying pressure enough to cause the smaller man to gasp for air.

“Where is the King’s gold, Colbert?” the Musketeer asked, his own breaths coming in rapid gulps. “You will have little need of it in the Chatalet.” 

“Guillame should’ve killed you in the alley when he had the chance,” the minister wheezed, his voice weak, defeated, despite his harsh words. 

“Yet here I am.” Aramis’ answering grin was anything but friendly. “As I explained to your friend, the Baron, Musketeers do not die easily.”

Colbert pushed against the pressure on his throat and Aramis relaxed his arm, allowing the man enough breath to speak. “Louis will never find the gold. It is safely hidden, far from his reach.”

“Why?” Aramis was curious as to the minister’s motivations for the theft. The man had been respected, positioned high in His Majesty’s court. It was difficult to fathom what would make a man so bathed in riches seek more in such an illicit fashion. It had been a question he had asked himself many times as he recovered from the damage caused by the explosion, and he had never been able to come up with an acceptable explanation.

“You have no idea what it’s like to watch that simpering fool blindly waste such a fortune,” Colbert complained.

“I assume you are referring to our sovereign in such unflattering fashion.”

“Sovereign,” Colbert nearly spat the word, his eyes filled with loathing. “Louis is nothing but a spoiled child, a puppet for Richelieu to manipulate. Your sovereign would bankrupt the country with his ridiculous extravagances and pathetic whims. He is no more qualified to lead France than you or I.”

“And you believe the gold would be better used by your hand?”

“The gold was owed to me. I am the reason it exists at all!” Colbert pushed the Musketeer’s arm away and Aramis stepped back, eager to hear the man’s justification. Colbert seemed to understand he was truly caught. With no more designs on escape, there was little reason to justify the use of force. The man seemed to deflate as he continued, his failure complete. “I worked for years to keep the country’s coffers filled, despite Louis wasting it on balls and hunts and mistresses. And Richelieu is no better! Building a monument to himself? It’s ridiculous!”

Aramis couldn’t help but agree with the Minister’s point. The construction of the Palais-Cardinal had already begun and the lavish new residence was to rival the Louvre itself. He’d heard rumors of the extravagant fittings of gold and silver supposedly commissioned for the palace, not surprised by the Cardinal’s desire to surround himself with the opulence fit for a King. The Cardinal’s flaunting of his wealth and position while the denizens of Paris scraped by day to day had always disgusted Aramis who, despite knowing Richelieu’s true nature, had expected better of a man of the church. But he had not been surprised by the Cardinal’s eccentricities, or the King’s indulgence in the matter.

Knowing Colbert’s motivations made the man’s treason easier to digest, but no more acceptable to excuse.

“It is not my place to decide how the King allocates his coin,” Aramis said with a sigh. “Nor, despite your position, was it yours.”

Colbert squared his shoulders and raised his gaze to meet the Musketeer’s, defiant. “Louis will never see a livre of that gold.”

“That is between you and the King.” Aramis grasped the man by the arm and dragged him back toward the ledge.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“Where’s Aramis?” Porthos looked around, searching for his friend. Though aware of the extent of the marksman’s injuries, Porthos had kept silent when Aramis had offered to act as decoy, understanding he needed the retribution and knowing Athos and d’Artagnan would be diligent in their defense of their wounded friend. When Colbert had spurred his horse directly toward Aramis, Porthos had been too far away to act, only breathing again when he’d been sure Aramis had dodged the attack and had seen his friend roll to a stop at the edge of the ravine.

His attention had then been taken by one of the Baron’s men who had used the distraction to unsheathe his sword and rush forward. He’d been aware of the hound attaching itself to his leg for just a moment before a well-aimed dagger in the back of its skull dislodged it. He’d managed to catch Aramis’ eye from across the clearing, pleased to find him back on his feet, drenched and even dirtier than before, but unharmed. He had time to give his friend a wink of thanks before returning to the fight at hand.

After that he’d lost track of the marksman, knowing only that his leg was growing weaker and the need to dispatch his opponent was quickly becoming imperative. 

As soon as the guard had fallen to his sword, Porthos swung around, watching as d’Artagnan dispatched his own opponent, leaving only Athos and the Baron in combat. It was apparent Athos was by far the better swordsman, lazily defending against the Baron’s clumsy attack for a few moments before easily disarming him and driving him to his knees. 

D’Artagnan moved closer, lending a shoulder and they limped toward Athos, pleased at the outcome of the battle. When the Baron had gone for the pistol, both Porthos and d’Artagnan had tensed, relaxing moments later as the man breathed his last at Athos’ hand.

Now, with the Baron lying dead, their victory complete, there was one troubling absence.

Athos stepped around the Baron’s body and pointed to the ledge above them just as Aramis appeared, dirty, drenched and bloody but smiling in satisfaction, Colbert in tow.

“He can barely stand without falling over and he decides to chase a horse up a hill?” Porthos asked incredulously. “Stupid idiot.”

Athos smiled, one brow tilting in consideration. “Every once in a while, a moment of insanity can produce great results.” 

Porthos snorted in amusement. “Just don’t tell ‘im that.” He tilted his head toward the men standing atop the ledge. “He’s bad enough as it is.”

“Point taken.”

David appeared at Aramis’ side and the disheveled Musketeer glanced down at the boy, ruffling his hair. The lad returned his smile with a look of wonderment, his eyes alight with adulation. The other three Musketeers could only chuckle at the awe with which the boy regarded their friend.

Athos stepped forward and cleared his throat, directing his next words to the man who had disrupted their lives for long enough. “Jean-Baptiste Colbert, I hereby arrest you in the name of the King.”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm 

 

With night coming on, they decided to return to the Baron’s chateau, unsure of their reception once the staff learned of their Lord’s demise. They had worried needlessly, finding themselves welcomed; Villiers, Mariette and the rest of the servants seeming more relieved than distressed at the Baron’s fate.

Aramis insisted on re-wrapping Porthos’ leg as well as cleaning and bandaging the bites marks, claiming infection in such a wound could have devastating consequences. When Porthos called attention to Aramis’ own limp, David eagerly recounted how he had saved the Musketeer from the razor-sharp fangs of the hound and Aramis, not wanting to devalue the boy’s heroics, had admitted to his latest injury. Once Porthos had been taken care of and admonished to stay off his leg, Aramis allowed Mariette to clean and treat his many cuts and scrapes, accepting the matronly woman’s invitation to make use of a soft feather bed in one of the many bedrooms of the chateau.

Unsure of the sincerity of the staff, d’Artagnan and Athos made the decision to guard their prisoner in shifts, keeping him away from everyone in case he attempted to use the offer of gold to bribe his way out of trouble.

They dispatched a rider with a message for Treville to expect them and their prisoner within four days, giving them two days at the chateau to rest up for the long ride back to Paris. Aramis spent most of his time asleep, only rousing to eat, drink and relieve himself, his exhausted body craving the rest his comfortable accommodations encouraged. 

Porthos, when not sending Athos, d’Artagnan or David to check on Aramis, spent many hours teaching the boy to play cards and, no doubt, how to win at all cost. Athos would never go so far as to accuse the man of instructing the impressionable lad to cheat, but the Musketeer imagined David would leave the estate with one or two new tricks up his sleeves.

On the second day of their stay, Aramis finally roused enough to join them for supper, having taken his previous meals in bed, far too sore to move.   
As he stretched languidly, cataloguing the various aches that presented themselves, he became aware of being watched and turned his head to find Athos sitting at his bedside, turning the pages of an ornate book.

Without looking up, Athos held the book out slightly as he studied the page. “The Art of War,” he announced.

Aramis grinned. “Sun Tzu. An appropriate book for a soldier.”

“The estate has an impressive library.” Athos snapped the book shut and leaned back in the chair, his eyes raking the marksman’s reclining form. “How are you feeling?”

Aramis rolled his head against the soft pillow, letting his eyes close as he relaxed back into the mattress. “Tired, sore,” he answered honestly. “But alarmingly comfortable.”

Athos snorted a laugh. “The Baron’s beds are a grade above those at the garrison.”

Aramis hummed in agreement.

After a few moments of silence in which the marksman found himself drifting back toward sleep, Athos finally spoke, his voice low and soft.

“I wish to apologize.”

Aramis let his head fall to the side, his eyes meeting his friend’s, his brow furrowed in confusion. “For what?”

Athos shifted as though uncomfortable but forged ahead. “You had earned the right to dispense justice to the Baron. I took that from you.”

Aramis waved a hand, brushing the words away.

“The important thing is that justice was served,” he responded. “The hand that wielded the implement is of no importance.”

Athos nodded, accepting the absolution. “Still, the man caused you great harm. I would have you know my actions were in your cause as much as my own.”

“You said his father was a friend of yours,” Aramis recalled. “Then you knew him as a boy?”

Athos nodded. “Unfortunately. He was as cruel and depraved then as he was now.” 

“What did he do to you?”

“It was not me he set his sights on then, but Thomas.” Athos’ eyes dropped to the book and he absently ran a hand along the ornate binding. “I once found him trying to corrupt my brother, attempting to convey the pleasure of brutality.” He looked up, an emotion Aramis couldn’t recognize on his face. “I stopped it at the time, of course, but can only wonder if whatever du Merle had imparted somehow lodged inside Thomas like a sickness and grew without my knowledge.”

“You’re talking about what happened with your wife.”

Athos nodded, a poignant sigh passing his lips. “She has always maintained Thomas attacked her. I never believed it, but…”

Aramis remained silent, not knowing how to comfort his friend. Athos’ past was now open to them, but still shrouded in confusion, even to the man himself.

Shaking himself from his melancholy, Athos stood and crossed the room to the dressing table, exchanging the book for a soft white garment lying on top. Aramis, deciding his rest was at an end, shifted his legs to the side and pushed himself from the bed to sit on the edge. Looking up, he caught the garment Athos tossed to him.

“Mariette believed this may be of some use.” Athos smiled, his familiar mask once again firmly in place. “She said yours was… beyond redemption, I believe.”

Aramis unfolded the material to reveal a shirt of the finest quality; the collar lace, the cuffs ruffled. It was made of a soft material of the snowiest white. Aramis donned the garment, smoothing the supple material across his chest. He looked up at Athos and grinned.

“This is surely a shirt made for a Baron – or a Comte – but hardly a common soldier.”

Athos tilted his head, inspecting the shirt for a moment before shrugging in deference. “It suits you.”

Aramis beamed.

“Mariette has prepared a feast in our honor. I assume you are ready to join us?”

Aramis’ stomach let out a loud rumble at the thought of food and he smiled sheepishly, eliciting a fond chuckle from his friend. 

“I will take that as a yes.”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

With the horses saddled and their prisoner secured on one of the Baron’s finest mounts, the four Musketeers bid adieu to the staff, thanking them for their unexpected hospitality. When Villiers took Athos aside, inquiring what would become of the estate now that the Baron was gone and had left no heir, Athos assured him he would take the matter up with the King and encourage him to find a suitable arrangement. With no heir apparent, the estate would no doubt default to the crown, and Athos could think of no better place for the King to take a hunting holiday than the forest surrounding the chateau.

The valet thanked him profusely for his consideration and they set off back to Paris, their mission complete.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Louis was incredibly pleased to have his former finance minister once again within the walls of the city. Colbert had been quiet on the return journey, having accepted his fate, but continuing to ignore any inquiries as to the location of the gold. 

When they stopped at an inn for the evening, Aramis had explained the former Minister’s reasoning to the others, going so far as to express empathy for the man’s logic though he held no respect for his execution. He was a thief, and as a loyal soldier of France, Aramis could no more condone the pilfering of its assets than the theft of a citizen’s belongings on the streets of Paris.

Athos had been the one to remind him that Colbert had been the orchestrator of one of the most trying events of his life, but he assured them he could identify with the man’s rationale without pardoning its implementation. 

Once at court, the Musketeers petitioned the King for recompense to the people of Brenne for d’Orbec’s years of oppression. Athos and d’Artagnan had relayed what they’d learned from the tavern keep in Brenne, and the other two found they held no animosity for the villagers’ lack of hospitality. They embellished the people’s part in the capture of Colbert, knowing that their attempt to force the Musketeers to abandon their mission quickly was the only way they had of keeping them from the Baron’s clutches. The ploy had had the opposite effect, but the sentiment was still admirable.

The King listened attentively, promising to investigate appropriate avenues of compensation for the people of d’Orbec’s lands – as soon as he could recover the gold Colbert had hidden. Since the former minister showed no sign of bowing to the King’s demands, the Musketeers hoped the people of the village would be content for a time knowing they were no longer subject to tyranny, able to live their lives free of the fear the Baron had imposed.

Dismissed from duty and looking forward to some wine and camaraderie, Treville hailed the four Musketeers after a quick conference with the King. As he approached, the Captain saw them stiffen, regarding him with trepidation.

“We were heading to the Wren,” Porthos announced in an attempt to pre-empt whatever Treville was about to convey. “Care to join us, Captain?”

Treville, experienced in all types of evasion, graciously decided not to call the man on his tactic, shifting his gaze from one man to the next. Though Athos and d’Artagnan had come through the last few days unscathed, Porthos still limped, his knee sore and weak. He refused to let the injury slow him down, but Treville knew it pained him nonetheless.

The Captain’s eyes settled on Aramis’ battered form and he sighed, taking in the still pale countenance and rigid posture. There had only been time for Athos to give him a brief accounting of all they had endured at the hands of the Baron, but from what he’d seen and heard, Aramis had taken the brunt of the man’s abuse. It gave him no pleasure to burden these men under the circumstances. They had performed their duty admirably and deserved time to rest and heal, but despite their condition, he knew they would carry out his commands with their usual honor and devotion.

“The King has requested a detail to accompany him on another hunt in two days time,” the Captain began. D’Artagnan was barely able to hold in a groan, and Athos and Porthos both glanced toward Aramis before opening their mouths to speak. Treville held up a hand to stay any response. “He did not officially mention any names, though he has made his satisfaction with your performance quite clear.” He paused, seeing the reluctant acceptance form in his soldier’s eyes. “But I intend to assign Etienne and Philippe to the detail. I believe it is an opportunity for them to gain experience and perhaps the notice of the King.”

It took a moment for the Musketeers to comprehend their captain’s words, but soon reserved frowns turned to relieved smiles and they each nodded to their commander in thanks.

Aramis especially seemed grateful for the reprieve and Treville found himself curious to hear the full report of what had happened in their search for Colbert. But that could wait. For now, he could reward these men for their sacrifice and dedication.

“Join us,” the marksman insisted with a grin. “Even captains need to take a night off once in a while.”

Treville smiled, truly amazed at the resilience of these four men. “Aramis, I believe you’re right. Lead the way.”

Fin

 

Thank you for reading!! I truly hope you enjoyed. Now that Colbert has been apprehended, it’s time for our heroes to move on to other adventures – and yes, I do have one rattling around in my obsessed little mind. ☺ I would love to hear what you thought of this story! Thanks again! -- Sue


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